Holt Mud Creek

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62309-367-9
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 356 Seiten

Reihe: Mud Creek

Bestselling novelist, Cheryl Holt, paints a world of triumph and tragedy, of joy and sorrow, where people are tested to their limits and the best and worst of humanity is revealed. Mud Creek is a tremendous, accessible, and heartrending book that whirls to a gripping climax, featuring Ms. Holt's most memorable characters in years.

CHERYL HOLT is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels. She's also a lawyer and mom, and at age forty, with two babies at home, she started a new career as a commercial fiction writer. She'd hoped to be a suspense novelist, but couldn't sell any of her manuscripts, so she ended up taking a detour into romance where she was stunned to discover that she has a knack for writing some of the world's greatest love stories. Her books have been released to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She is particularly proud to have been named 'Best Storyteller of the Year' by the trade magazine Romantic Times BOOK Reviews. She lives and writes in Hollywood, California, and she loves to hear from fans.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Holt, Cheryl

Leseproben

CHAPTER TWO

Three years later…

“What are you saying?”

“There’s nothing left, Miss Pendleton.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

Helen gazed at her father’s attorney, Mr. Wainwright. They were in his office, with him seated at his stained, scruffy desk, and her in the stiff-backed chair across.

She had never previously met him and couldn’t figure out how her father, Charles, had come to be his client. Charles had always done business with men he’d known all his life, with men he’d trusted.

Wainwright’s office was in a seedy neighborhood, and when she’d first entered the building, she’d been disturbed by its dilapidated condition. But apparently, he was the only attorney her father could afford. He was dressed in a faded suit, the elbows of his jacket patched, the cuffs worn.

To hear him tell it, Charles had burned his bridges, borrowing money he couldn’t repay. Wainwright’s tale of bankruptcy and fraud was so divergent from the responsible, thrifty person she’d recognized her father to be that she couldn’t believe the shocking story.

For weeks, Wainwright had been trying to schedule an appointment, but she’d had a premonition of further calamity, so she’d evaded his attempts.

Two month earlier, her father had died suddenly. It had been a particularly brutal winter, with heavy snow continuing far into the spring. He’d been shoveling the front walk when he’d clutched at his chest and keeled over.

His untimely passing, coming on the heels of her mother’s lengthy demise, was simply too much for Helen to bear. Coupled with her worry over Violet, Helen was at her wit’s end as to how she should proceed.

She peered out the window behind Mr. Wainwright. Winter had fled in an instant, and spring had swiftly arrived. The lilacs were in bloom, the snow having lingered just long enough to kill her father.

“Charles made some risky investments,” Mr. Wainwright was explaining, “but they didn’t pan out, so he couldn’t square his mortgages.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Helen complained. “I thought the store was prosperous. My father never breathed a word to my mother about any financial problems.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have, would he? Even if she’d been healthy? And with how quickly she deteriorated, he wouldn’t have wanted her to fret.”

“No, you’re right. He wouldn’t have.”

“There’s more, Miss Pendleton.” He looked especially glum. “It grieves me to inform you.”

“Just say it.”

“Your house has been sold and most of the furniture with it.”

“What?”

“You’ll be allowed to retain some of your personal possessions, but nothing more.”

“Who is the new owner? Would he let us remain on the property?”

“No.” He glanced down as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“We have to move? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“By the fifteenth of next month. That’s why I’ve been trying to contact you, so you could make plans.”

“Plans! What are my sister and I to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have no kin to take us in. We have nowhere to go.” And with Violet’s shameful mess, no neighbors who would assist them.

“I realize that fact.”

“I went by the bank yesterday,” Helen said, “but they claimed my father’s accounts had been closed. Our maid needs her wages.”

Wainwright frowned as if she was a foolish child, and his scorn certainly had her feeling like one.

“There’s no money, Miss Pendleton. I keep repeating myself, but I don’t seem to be getting through. How can I be more clear?”

“We had a house,” Helen protested, “and a business my father owned since he was a young man. How can there be no money? I don’t mean to be dense, but I truly cannot grasp how this happened.”

“Your father invested in stocks, then the market crashed. He had expanded his company, which required several mortgages, but with the downturn, he couldn’t pay off his debts.” He paused and smiled a fake smile. “This situation probably sounds unusual to you, but it’s actually very common.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Crushed with dismay, she studied the rug. More to herself than to him, she mumbled, “I was finally going back to college in the fall.”

“It won’t be possible now,” he softly commiserated.

“No, I don’t imagine it will be.”

She’d attended a year of teacher’s college, and it had been as interesting and fulfilling as she’d predicted it would be. Yet life had a way of dashing even the most optimistic of dreams.

Just as her second year was about to begin, her mother had caught a summer cold that never let up. By Christmas, her health had worsened to the point where she couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Helen had been needed at home, and though her father hadn’t asked her to stay, she had.

The doctors had fussed over Mildred, ultimately asserting that she was suffering from a cancerous tumor in her abdomen, but Helen still couldn’t decide if that had been the cause of Mildred’s weakened condition.

So many of the doctors they’d hired had seemed like quacks.

Her mother’s passing had taken forever, with Helen assuming more and more responsibility for managing the household and reining in Violet who had grown increasingly incorrigible.

But lately, things had been improving. Their mourning period had concluded, their distress had waned. Violet had calmed, and their father was less harried. Helen had written to the college; she’d been invited back for the fall semester.

Then her father had dropped dead.

Her twentieth birthday was approaching, but she didn’t feel twenty. She felt a hundred and twenty, as if she’d lived ten lifetimes in the past three years.

She often recalled that afternoon in the parlor, when Albert had proposed, and she’d fought with her mother. She’d been so smug, so juvenilely certain she could bend the world to her own liking.

Her mother had tried to warn her that—for a woman—security mattered above all, but Helen had refused to listen. She’d wanted to be happy. She’d wanted to be free and independent and able to act however she chose.

Throughout Mildred’s protracted decline, she’d been kind enough not to gloat over Helen’s silly opinions, and they’d definitely changed. At the moment, she would give anything to be married, to have a husband who could guide her, who could help to save her home, who could slip her a few dollars to pay the maid so she wouldn’t quit.

“One other topic”—Mr. Wainwright interrupted her pathetic musings—“if I may, Miss Pendleton?”

“What is it?” She braced, wondering how much more she could endure.

“It’s about your sister.”

“What about her?” Helen snapped.

“Since you have no parents available to counsel you, I could advise you regarding her difficulty. If you’d like to discuss it, that is.”

Helen’s cheeks flushed bright red. Rumors over Violet’s latest imbroglio had the whole town scandalized, but Helen would die before she’d let Mr. Wainwright note any upset.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she claimed.

He nodded, polite enough to drop the mortifying subject. “Very well then. If I may be of service to you in the future, please contact me.”

It took her a second to realize she was being dismissed. “I will and thank you. I appreciate your candor.”

“I’ve found it best not to sugarcoat things. It’s best to get the details out in the open.”

“Yes, it is,” Helen agreed, but she didn’t mean it.

She wouldn’t have been averse to his hedging and fibbing a few more days. If he had, she could have continued to hide in her cocoon, where she’d only had to deal with the reality of two deceased parents and the fact that she and her sister were orphaned. Instead, she had to devise a way to maneuver as the world disintegrated around her.

Wainwright stood and went to the door, which left her no alternative but to do the same. She pushed herself to her feet and staggered out of his office, down the long hall, the flights of stairs, and out to the sidewalk.

For a lengthy interval, she morosely dawdled, watching people hustle by. Everyone was busy but her. She felt invisible and insubstantial, as if she was connected to the ground by a thin tether. If it was cut, she would simply float off into the sky.

Up ahead, an old school friend and the girl’s mother were coming directly toward her, and she cringed. She couldn’t avoid them, and she wasn’t in the mood to chat or suffer their pitying expressions.

However, she needn’t have worried. The mother peeked up, nudged her daughter, and they scurried across the street, pretending not to have seen Helen. It was the most infuriating, degrading episode of her life.

After her father’s funeral, she...