Oh My Stars, page 1
Also by Sally Kilpatrick
The Happy Hour Choir
Bittersweet Creek
Better Get to Livin’
Orange Blossom Special
Bless Her Heart
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
oh my stars
Sally Kilpatrick
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by Sally Kilpatrick
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chapter 1 - Ivy
Chapter 2 - Gabe
Chapter 3 - Ivy
Chapter 4 - Gabe
Chapter 5 - Ivy
Chapter 6 - Gabe
Chapter 7 - Ivy
Chapter 8 - Gabe
Chapter 9 - Ivy
Chapter 10 - Gabe
Chapter 11 - Ivy
Chapter 12 - Gabe
Chapter 13 - Ivy
Chapter 14 - Gabe
Chapter 15 - Ivy
Chapter 16 - Gabe
Chapter 17 - Ivy
Chapter 18 - Gabe
Chapter 19 - Ivy
Chapter 20 - Gabe
Chapter 21 - Ivy
Chapter 22 - Gabe
Chapter 23 - Ivy
Chapter 24 - Gabe
Chapter 25 - Ivy
Chapter 26 - Gabe
Chapter 27 - Ivy
Chapter 28 - Gabe
Chapter 29 - Ivy
Chapter 30 - Gabe
Chapter 31 - Ivy
Chapter 32 - Gabe
Chapter 33 - Ivy
Chapter 34 - Gabe
Chapter 35 - Ivy
Chapter 36 - Gabe
Chapter 37 - Ivy
Chapter 38 - Gabe
Chapter 39 - Ivy
Chapter 40 - Gabe
Chapter 41 - Ivy
Chapter 42 - Gabe
Chapter 43 - Ivy
Chapter 44 - Gabe
Chapter 45 - Ivy
Chapter 46 - Gabe
Chapter 47 - Ivy
Chapter 48 - Gabe
Chapter 49 - Ivy
Chapter 50 - Gabe
Chapter 51 - Ivy
Chapter 52 - Gabe
Chapter 53 - Ivy
Chapter 54 - Gabe
Chapter 55 - Ivy
Chapter 56 - Gabe
Chapter 57 - Ivy
Epilogue - Ivy
Discussion Questions
Sausage Balls
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Sally Kilpatrick
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1076-5
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1076-2
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1075-8
To Ryan, my expert on all things Christmas
And my model for all things heroic
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Book five, y’all! Let me start by thanking each and every one of you who has read one of my books or bought it as a gift or suggested it to a friend. Thank you. You help me do what I love.
Thanks to Kensington—especially Wendy, Lulu, Paula, and Michelle. Special thanks to my agent, Sarah Younger, for insight on this book and life and goats and for generally being awesome.
Speaking of goats, thanks to Mary at Decimal Place Farm for giving me the grand tour and teaching me all about goats, udders, and cheese. She even gave me a snack, and it was tasty! If you’re in Atlanta, you should look up her cheeses—one of her haunts is the Freedom Farmers Market. Thanks also to Kaitlyn at Shoo Fly Soap Company for helping me learn about making soap from goat’s milk; I had a character fictionally use her delightful honeysuckle and vanilla recipe. Thanks to Sweet Olive Rescue Farm for giving me another reason to tromp around pastures and for teaching me about llamas and alpacas and sheep, oh my!
To Patti Callahan Henry and Kim Wright, thank you, thank you for your lovely blurbs. To Anna, Tanya, Mom, and Ryan—thanks for reading and offering helpful suggestions. Cassie Register has accepted texts at odd hours as I worked on how an abandoned baby would navigate its way through the foster care system. Cliff Wu has answered long and involved emails about pediatric situations, and former student Ashlie Dumas has double-checked my medicine. Heather Leonard has once again offered expert legal advice to the fictional.
This is the point where I tell you any mistakes you find are mine and mine alone, probably a literary liberty I took to bend the story to my will. (mwa ha ha) That said, I did my best to be as accurate as I could. Any mistakes you find are mine, and mine alone.
A special shout-out to my 2017 Barbara Vey Readers Luncheon tablemates; they generously donated their names to various animals in the Nativity menagerie: C.J., Leonard, Elizabeth, Kathy, Dawn, Donna, and Teresa. Deanna Raybourn also graciously allowed me to name an animal after her, and I think that gave the llama a little je ne sais quoi.
One day on Twitter, Elantrice Hugh helped me figure out what to do with my abandoned baby, when I was in a pinch. Jennifer Meyering helped me find Elantrice. Liana Brooks also chimed in on the subject. Speaking of Twitter shenanigans, Sasha Devlin did her best to distract me from writing with her #BrownEyedBabes, but I persevered.
Oh, and a special thanks to Anne Golden for giving me an awesome title. Oh my stars, indeed.
To Antoinette, you know how you help. *Mwah* to the Hobbit and Her Majesty, I love you and you are growing up too quickly, but I am proud of the fine people you are becoming. Thank you for getting yourself to school some mornings and for always understanding when I’m writing or traveling or both. Thanks to my parents (Jim and Jane) and my bonus parents (Bill and Terri) for their never-ending support and for taking care of the kiddos. Finally, thanks to Ryan for, well, everything. Not only do I love you, but you have a most impressive recall of Christmas movies.
Chapter 1
Ivy
And it came to pass in those days, that a decree went out from my mother that I would be playing the Virgin Mary in the Dollar General drive-through Nativity whether I liked it or not. Never mind the fact that my name was not Mary, that I was not a teen, and, most importantly, not a virgin. Still, decrees from my mother were similar to those from Caesar Augustus: both had to be obeyed. Thus I found myself in flowing robes with a demure head covering as I knelt by a manger while the yellow and black of the Dollar General sign illumined my face like a commercialized Star of the East.
“How much longer?” asked my faux husband through gritted teeth. He, like Joseph, sported a beard but his had been meticulously clipped and he smelled faintly of an expensive woodsy aftershave. Those tasseled loafers peeking out from under his robes definitely weren’t Bethlehem issue.
“An hour or two. Maybe?”
We held our pose as cars drove slowly by, sometimes pausing to take a picture. I didn’t know about him, but my legs were starting to cramp, and I had an itch on the back of my neck that I would’ve paid someone to scratch. Heck, the llama a couple of feet behind me could’ve scratched it and left behind llama slobber for all I cared.
“Miss Idabell tell you to take off your watch?” I asked.
He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled because we were both far too old to be bossed around yet, here we were. “She told me it would ‘distract from the miracle of Christmas.’ Told me to leave my ‘fancy phone’ in the car, too.”
“And did you?”
He snorted, and I knew that fancy phone was still in his pocket. It might be worth calling him just to watch him try to get to it underneath his robes. Unfortunately, I didn’t know his name much less his phone number, and, no matter what my sister Holly said, I had no intention of asking for phone numbers.
Phone numbers led to sweaty palms and wondering why people didn’t call. Then those sweaty palms and paranoia gave way to a date. That date would lead to acid reflux–inducing anxiety about a first kiss. Then something more. Then a relationship. Possibly marriage. Nope. Been there, done that, got the airbrushed T-shirt from a Gatlinburg souvenir shop to prove it. Once upon a time, I had believed in not only happily-ever-afters but also being open to the signs of the universe, something my first husband used to tease me about. Then he’d inadvertently taught me all about richer, poorer, sickness, health, and the parting powers of death.
I hadn’t seen a single “sign” since, and, if I had women’s intuition, she wasn’t telling me a blasted thing. At least Mary had an angel visit her and tell her what was what.
Canned Christmas carols danced on my last nerve. Our Nativity scene organizer claimed good instrumental hymns, like good men, were hard to find. If I hadn’t already been working full time in addition to my ill-advised stint as Mary, I might’ve made it my personal mission to prove her wrong. Maybe next week I would look up instrumental songs for the sake of the next Mary and Joseph.
Thank the Lord my stint would only be one week.
Finally, just as I
“I’m Gabe, by the way,” my Joseph said as he extended his hand. I’d heard the name, but I couldn’t place it. I would’ve remembered him, too, with those warm brown eyes that crinkled at the edges.
“Ivy.”
HIs hand enveloped mine and was softer than I was used to but large and reassuring nonetheless.
We’d skipped the introductions at the beginning because I’d been running late. I’d been running late because my mother and I were arguing. My mother and I had been arguing because she didn’t tell me about my evening stint as Mary until ten minutes before I walked out the door.
“So,” he said awkwardly.
“So.”
“You back tomorrow, too?”
I laughed. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be here all week. Try the veal. Don’t forget to tip the waitstaff.”
He chuckled at my lounge singer imitation, and I had to give him some credit for laughing at my very bad joke. He jabbed a thumb in the direction behind him. “Better not tell her that.”
I looked behind me to see Star, Romy and Julian’s black cow with the white face. Everyone knew Star because she didn’t really think she was a cow and so didn’t think fences applied to her. She’d calmed down some now that she wasn’t a spry little calf, but she still got out every now and again just to keep us all on our toes. At least she was gentle enough that whoever found her could put a halter on her and lead her back to the Satterfield place where she belonged.
And to think I thought I wouldn’t get anything useful out of completing the 4-H Heifer Project with my uncle Edgar.
“This old girl? I would never!” I said as I scratched the little black star on her forehead. “Besides, she’s too old to be veal. Aren’t you, girl?”
The cow snuffed and butted my hand off her head.
“I deserved that,” I admitted.
“Hey, now. Don’t mess with my wife’s cow,” Julian McElroy yelled. He’d been one of the shepherds and was ushering a swaybacked palomino into a trailer. “You gonna pull your weight, City Boy, or are you going to make goo-goo eyes at Ivy Long?”
Gabe rolled his eyes but grabbed Star’s halter.
The cow didn’t move.
Since she weighed over a thousand pounds, Gabe didn’t budge, either.
“Don’t let her step on your toes,” Romy said, rushing in with her black curly hair bouncing everywhere. “I’ll take her.”
Star followed her eagerly, and Gabe looked at me dumbfounded.
“Cows,” I said with a shrug.
Julian, meanwhile, spoke to one of two donkeys. “Look here, not a one of us wants to be here all night.”
The creature dug in her feet and protested with a hee-haw that reminded me of that television show my grandparents used to like so much.
“Yo, get those goats, will ya?” Julian asked Gabe before whispering something to his recalcitrant jenny. She finally walked forward. Julian McElroy had always attracted asses. And women. But mainly asses.
“Mister Gabe, see my rabbit?” asked Portia, Julian and Romy’s adorable little girl, who’d showed up for the last fifteen minutes of the night. So my Joseph was now on one knee talking to the little girl.
Oh. That Gabe.
He was Lester Ledbetter’s son. According to all of the local authorities on such things, Gabe said he’d left his job as a pediatrician to come home and learn about goat farming. Also according to those authorities, someone had sued him in Memphis and he’d come home to lick his wounds.
Portia had skipped off, but the goats crowded around Gabe, nosing into the pockets of his jacket. He could handle children, but he didn’t seem particularly well suited to kids. They danced around him, almost tripping him. Then one of the goats, the one with the yellow plastic chain around her neck, jumped up on the back of the remaining donkey, putting her front feet on the donkey’s rump. The donkey looked over her shoulder in disgust.
“Elizabeth, get down from there! That poor donkey doesn’t want any of your mess tonight,” Julian said, as he took control of the goat situation.
“Elizabeth?” I couldn’t help but ask.
Gabe shrugged. “Dad says he names the animals after his favorite people.”
“More likely he named them after old girlfriends.”
Before he could respond to that, the goat ran past us with Julian hot on her hooves. “Come back here!”
“Maybe I’d better help,” Gabe said with a grin.
“Maybe.” A figurative butterfly fluttered around in my stomach. I told my stomach acids to eat it and headed to the back of the building.
About that time Gabe cussed, and I looked over my shoulder just in time to see him checking the soles of his tasseled loafers. I giggled at the thought that he had a bit of farm animal souvenir on his shoes. Served him right for wearing something so fancy where livestock would tread.
The goat ran around the side of the stable as the llama ambled past me. Gabe looked at one animal, then another, but Julian headed after the goat so he finally darted after the llama. We could’ve charged extra for this show, maybe play that Benny Hill saxophone song instead of carols.
A nicer woman would’ve offered her assistance in catching the animals, but I’d used up all of my niceness by playing the Virgin Mary against my will. So, I moseyed around the corner of the Dollar General building to sneak a cigarette before driving home. I’d have to bathe in mouthwash before I arrived, but it would be totally worth it.
Once safely in the shadows to the back lot and far from prying eyes, I lit my cigarette. I held it just in front of my mouth for a couple of seconds, reveling in the anticipation before closing my eyes and inhaling the nicotine goodness. Well, not goodness per se. My mother would have a conniption if she knew I still snuck two cigarettes a day. I could almost hear her admonition, “It wasn’t enough for us to lose Corey to cancer, are you trying to kill yourself, too? What do you think he would say about it?”
It didn’t matter what Corey said about my smoking because he had already shuffled off his mortal coil. He was in the clouds playing air guitar with Jimi Hendrix, having left me to pay off the bills and try to figure out how to move on without him. My hand inadvertently traveled to the side of my purse to pat the sealed envelope I kept there.
Okay. So it’s possible Corey did have something to say to me about my smoking, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the letter he’d handed me two years ago, so I would never know. As long as I didn’t open that letter, then I still had a part of my husband with me. I used to tell myself that one day the pain wouldn’t be so bad. Then I would open the letter, find my closure, and move on. But day dragged on after day and the acute stabbing pain of grief settled into a dull ache with the occasional sharp pang, so I left the letter alone, afraid I’d read something there that would open up the wound all over again.
Besides, the man had been delirious from morphine there at the end. His letter was probably an enigmatic haiku:
Buy flashlights and pie
Give yourself a fluffy pup
Cancer sucks skunk balls
I once asked him why “skunk balls.” He had this convoluted thing about stink and suck, the latter of which he couldn’t say around his mother—at least not until the end when he said whatever he pleased. But, in general, everything bad stank like skunk balls for him.
I still missed that man’s way with words—even if he did tell me that smoking was a nasty habit that made my breath smell like skunk balls. Since so many things nauseated him, I got in the habit of gargling so much Listerine I could’ve been a spokesperson for the stuff. Still didn’t get all of the smell or taste.
Looking down at my orange-tipped cigarette, the only light behind the Dollar General, that old familiar calm washed through me. I missed the heady early days when I got the calm along with a preternatural alertness. Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted. Now I survived on copious cups of coffee and my two cigarettes a day.
