Prologue

 

You don’t find love. It finds you. It’s got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what’s written in the stars.

—Anais Nin

 

May 2020

Sims Chapel, TN
 

They say our lives are written in the stars, that our fate is predetermined. But after the life I’ve lived, I believe that we are the authors of our own destiny, endowed by the Almighty with the power to choose our own paths, and, when necessary, to rewrite the stars.
 

Tonight, I sit alone under a chilly Tennessee sky. My only company, aside from a crackling fire and a glass of Jack Daniels, is a chorus of crickets and bullfrogs. It is a tune I know well. From the comfort of my rocking chair, I lean back and gaze deep into the heavens. Above me, the stars stretch to infinity like lighthouses on a thousand distant shores, waiting to guide my thoughts across the velvet sea. But before they set sail, the sound of the telephone ringing brings me back to earth, so I push myself out of the rocker and shuffle into the house.
 

“Hello.”
 

“Hey, it’s me. It’s done.”
 

“Everything? Are you sure?”
 

“The moving truck is on its way to the storage facility, the door is locked, and the alarm is set. Sherrie will be by in the morning to stick the sign in the yard, so there’s nothing left to do now but wait.”
 

Between the alcohol and the notion that the house that had known sixty years of love and laughter now sits empty, it takes me a moment to process.
 

“I can’t thank you enough, sweetheart. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
 

“You’re welcome, Daddy. I only wish I could do more. Speaking of that, I know you said you didn’t want any company tomorrow, but I wish you’d reconsider. I could leave first thing in the morning and be at your place by noon. That way we could go together.”
 

“Who would run the store?”
 

“Annalise can manage. She practically runs the place on her own as it is.”
 

“I appreciate the offer, Caroline, but you’ve more than held up your end of the bargain. The last mile is my cross to bear.”
 

“Well,” she says, sighing heavily into the phone, “if you change your mind, you know how to reach me. I don’t mind dropping everything and leaving at a moment’s notice.”
 

“I know, and thank you. Oh, before I forget, did you find your mother’s memory box?”
 

“No, I’m afraid not, and I searched every inch of the house. Twice in fact. The only thing I can figure is she must have moved it without telling you.”
 

“You’re probably right,” I say, fearing it is lost forever. “I’ll check again in the morning before I head out.”
 

“Just promise me you’ll be careful. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you too.”
 

“I will. But try not to worry. I’ve been making this trip since before you were a twinkle in your mother’s eye.”
 

“Yes, but not like this—this will be different.”
 

I consider that, thinking that tomorrow will be one of the toughest days of my life.
 

“Well, I should go,” she says a moment later. “I’ve been at it all day, and I’m exhausted.”
 

“All right, darlin’. Tell Don I said hello, will you? Annalise too.”
 

“Sure thing, Daddy. I love you.”
 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”
 

I mosey outside, add a log to the fire, and settle in for the long night ahead. “Now where was I?” At the bottom of my glass, it all comes back to me. Leaning back in the rocker, I catch the glimmer of the North Star as the tail of a comet’s light streaks across the sky.

 

Part 1

Summer

 

Chapter 1

Gully Washer

May 1950
 

“Jack, if you get us killed, so help me God…”
 

The storm that had been building in the western sky rolled east, and a column of low, swirling clouds swept up the valley, blotting out the sun. By the looks of things, this was going to be a gully washer, which meant Jack Bennett had one shot at getting the motor to turn over. Otherwise he and his passenger would have to ride out the storm on Rock Island.
 

With the last bolt tightened, Jack turned and shouted into the wind. “All right, George, here goes nothing.” Bracing himself, Jack pressed one hand firmly against the engine, grabbed the pull cord with the other, and yanked with all his might. 
 

The engine spat and sputtered until finally, to Jack’s delight, the steel beast gurgled to life. From the bow, George Duncan put his palms together and raised his eyes to the heavens. 
 

Jack grinned. But with a mile of open water between them and the dock, they weren’t out of the woods yet.
 

***
 

A little while later, Jack and George huddled in the weathered shack at the end of the dock as rain fell in wind-driven sheets around them. Thunder echoed over the vast expanse, and like starlight pulsing through the graphite sky, lightning twisted and forked, bridging the gap between the heavens and the earth. It was as awesome a display of Mother Nature’s power as either of them had ever witnessed.
 

They were an unlikely pair, George and Jack. George Duncan was a seventy-five-year-old Black man with a reputation for drinking too much. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and unblemished, eighteen-year-old Jack Bennett was the antithesis of George. But despite their differences, the one thing they shared was their love for the water.
 

As the dilapidated shack swayed and creaked around them, Jack took in a couple of deep breaths. He smelled rain, gasoline, and the sweet aroma of chewing tobacco, then turned and stared out the window. “God must be angry today.”
 

“I don’t know nothin’ about that.” George’s weathered body lumbered to the icebox, plucked two beers from the top shelf, and tossed one to Jack. “But if we’d waited five more minutes, we could have asked him ourselves.”
 

Jack smiled amusedly and opened his beer. “I ain’t gonna let nothing happen to you, George. Besides, you keep forgetting I’m the best damn mechanic around. No one knows boats like me—or how to fix them.”
 

“Speakin’ of that, you should think about making a livin’ out of it.”
 

“What, boats?”
 

George wagged his head back and forth. “Bein’ a mechanic. I mean, you can fix just about anything, and since there’s no shortage of things breakin’, you’d never run out of work.”
 

Jack entertained the idea while he nursed his beer. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “I may look into that. Thanks, George.”
 

“Don’t mention it.” George gulped his drink and drew a hand across his mouth. “I’m sure glad to get outta that hot sun…and away from the storm. Now look at us.” A smile worked across his wrinkled face. “We got a roof over our heads and somethin’ cold to drink. A man don’t need much more’n that.” When he’d finished, he nodded toward the icebox. “There’s more beer in the chest if you get a hankerin’.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Jack. “But you know I only drink one. I wouldn’t want to get you into any kind of trouble, not on account of me.”
 

George leaned back and let out a laugh that filled the small room. “The way I see it, if you’re old enough to fight, you’re old enough to have a beer. It’s one of them rites of passage I heard the preacher talk about when I was younger. B’sides, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with it so long as you don’t go burnin’ up the roads. The water, on the other hand.” He nodded toward the lake. “Why, you could go off course for pert’ near an hour and not run into nothing.”
 

While George fetched another beer from the chest, Jack pulled out his wallet and counted the bills. Thirty-five plus the four sixty-five I have at home makes… He did the math in his head. Five hundred big ones. Not bad.
 

“Whatcha gonna do with all that cash?” 
 

“I reckon I’ll save it.”
 

“For what?”
 

“Same thing as the last time you asked me.”
 

“You mean that house on the hill?” Before Jack could respond, George shook his head in disgust. “Don’t be a damn fool, boy. Like I told you before, only rich folks live on the hill. Folks like you and me—real folks—we ain’t got no chance at a life like that. It ain’t in the stars. We’re lucky to scrape by down here at the water’s edge. Which, if you wanna know the truth, ain’t a bad deal.” George leaned in his chair and belched. Then Jack watched as a smile spread across his face.
 

“That’s what you keep telling me. But even rich folks gotta start somewhere.” Jack put away his money and stared out at the dark water, disinclined to accept the fate George had predicted for him.
 

“Think what you want, but someday you’ll see what old George is talkin’ about.” George finished his second beer. After crushing the can and tossing it in the corner, he said, “Hey, listen. I appreciate you decidin’ to stay on with me this summer. Honestly, I don’t think I could run things without you. Not anymore.”
 

Jack wondered if it was George or the alcohol doing the talking. Probably a little of both, he concluded as the man started on his third beer. “Aww, come on, George. That ain’t no way to talk. You still got a few years left in you.” He watched as George stared sullenly at the rain. “But in any case, I’m glad to do it and thankful for the work. Besides, it beats the hell out of working at the mill. I was talking to Ray Tucker the other day, and he said with all the windows they have in that place, it’s like an oven in the summer. And in the winter you nearly freeze to death. That’s no life I want. No, sir.” Jack shook his head and glanced outside as the rain tapered off. “At least here I get to be on the water, and like you said, that ain’t bad.”
 

“Amen!” George slapped the table with an open palm. “I’ll drink to that.”
 

***
 

By the time Jack’s house came into view, the storm had pushed east into the mountains, but evidence of its passage remained. The hike from the dock to his house, which was over a mile, took Jack along the lakeshore, through a dense stretch of woods, over a creek, and across a field of heather so thick he had to cut a path with his machete.
 

When Jack finally reached the porch, it was nearly suppertime. After slipping out of his damp clothes, he set them on the rail to dry before pushing open the front door.
 

“That you, JB?”
 

“It’s me, Mama,” Jack answered wearily. He shuffled into the bathroom, washed his hands and face, and changed clothes before coming to supper.
 

“How was work today? You didn’t get caught out in that squall, did ya? Donna Rae said Deep Springs Road is a mess.”
 

“The woods too,” said Jack. “On the bright side, there’s a couple of trees down at the edge of the yard I can cut up and use for firewood. And to answer your question, me and George made it back just in time.”
 

She snapped him a look, her steely blue eyes tightening at the corners. “You didn’t pull that engine-trouble trick on old George again, did you?” 
 

The fact that she remembered shocked Jack. “What if I did? You gonna tell old George on me? I was only having a little fun.” He rocked back in the chair, balancing on two legs. “Besides, I got us back with five whole minutes to spare.”
 

Helen Bennett narrowed her eyes at him. “Jack Edward Bennett. I thought I taught you better’n that. And put that chair on all fours. If God had intended it to have two legs, he’d have made it that way.” She shook her head in disgust. “You got too much of your daddy in you. That’s your problem. If you ain’t careful, one of these days you’re gonna fool around and give old George a heart attack. How would you feel then?”
 

“I’m sorry.” He set the chair right. “It won’t happen again. Promise.”
 

“Well, good.” Her tone softened. “After all, George ain’t as young as he used to be. I reckon none of us are.” She checked the biscuits. “You hungry?”
 

“Starving.”
 

When the biscuits were golden brown on top, Helen took them out of the oven, covered them with a towel, and set them on the table to cool. Next, she brought over the jar of honey and a plate of fried bologna, put it beside the biscuits, and finally collapsed into her chair. “You wanna say grace or should I?”
 

“You go ahead,” said Jack. “You’re so much better at it than I am.”
 

“Very well. Bow your head.”
 

When the prayer had been said, Helen filled a plate and began eating while Jack poked and prodded at the fatty meat. Usually, he didn’t mind bologna and biscuits, but this made the third day in a row. Even he had his limits.
 

“Mama, I wish you’d let me help with the groceries. I was counting my money this afternoon, and—”
 

Helen raised a hand, cutting him short. “Listen, I know you want to help, and God knows you’d give me your last dime if I asked you, but that’s your money. You’ve worked hard for it, and hopefully someday it will help you get that house on the hill you’re always goin’ on about. So don’t go wastin’ it on me. B’sides, this may not be steak and potatoes, but it’s nourishment to our bodies, and we got the good Lord to thank for that. Which is more than I can say for some folks.”
 

Feeling a tinge of guilt, Jack dropped his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
 

“But it’s mighty kind of you to offer, JB,” she said after a pause. “You’re turnin’ into a fine young man.”

“Thanks, Mama.” He took another bite of biscuit and chased it with a sip of tea. “Well, if I can’t buy groceries, can I at least paint the kitchen? George has a couple of gallons of chiffon sitting in the shack that came from a man in White Pine. He said it’s mine if I want it.”
 

“Well, now.” She chewed her lip for a moment. “I suppose there’s nothin’ wrong with that so long as it don’t cost you nothin’.”
 

“Not a cent,” he said. “Cross my heart.”
 

“All right, it’s a deal—under one condition. You promise not to make a mess of my floors.”
 

“Yes, ma’am. I promise.”
 

***
 

After supper, Jack cleared the table and took the scraps outside to feed to the foxes and raccoons before drawing a bath. When he’d finished scrubbing the dirt from his body, he put on his pajama pants and opened the window to let in the cool breeze. The little house he and his mama called home was no mansion, and it didn’t have any modern conveniences like a telephone or air-conditioning, but it had gobs of windows. So most nights they left them open to let in fresh air and be sung to sleep by the crickets and bullfrogs.
 

He spent a few minutes talking to God, then wrote in the journal Fleta Pickle had given him for his birthday.

 

Dear Lewis,

You should have seen the big storm we had this afternoon. The way the wind was howlin’, you’d a thought the Rapture was coming. In all my days, I’ve never seen whitecaps like that. Luckily, I got me and George back in time without as much as a single raindrop hitting us. According to Mama, I nearly gave George a heart attack with that old engine-trouble stunt. Maybe she’s right, and I should take it easy on him from now on. After all, I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to George. Anyway, when the storm passed, I dropped a line and caught a couple of crappies from the dock on some minnows I snagged with the net this morning. Neither of them any size but a promising sign. Maybe tomorrow I’ll head up Flat Creek and see if I can’t catch me a catfish for supper. I haven’t had a good mess of fish in a while, and it’d sure beat having bologna again. Well, I gotta get some shuteye. Talk later.

Jack