Drenched in Light (Tending Roses, Band 4) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Lisa Wingate is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of over thirty novels. She is known for combining elements of Southern storytelling, mystery, and history to create novels hailed by Publishers Weekly as “masterful.” Her novel Before We Were Yours remained on the New York Times bestsellers list for over five months and has been translated into thirty-five languages. While her work has received many awards, she most treasures the National Civics Award, presented by the kindness watchdog organization Americans for More Civility, to recognize public figures who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life. She believes that stories can change the world.

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Chapter 1

Me.     

            Not much of a topic for an essay. There's nothing to me that anyone would want to read about.

The books I read in English class last semester.

Not much of a topic, either.

How those books are like my life.

None of those books are like my life. How could they be? Grandma Rose always said that two folks might go along the same path, but how they walk it depends a lot on the shoes they're in. There's an old Indian saying she had hanging on her kitchen wall. I can't remember it exactly, but it means that if we all had the same shoes, we'd understand each other better. But we don't.

I don't like to wear shoes, so I'm a little like Huckleberry Finn. Of course, I have to wear shoes most of the time, now that I live in Kansas City with Karen and James. Good shoes, and nice clothes, and my hair combed back in a pretty silver clip most of the time, so it doesn't hang dark and stringy over my face-that's how I have to look here. That's how all the students look at Harrington Academy. I don't mind wearing

the same shoes as everybody else. It's easy. It makes you fit in, and no-

body questions where you've been or what you've done. When you have the right shoes, everyone takes you in without a second glance. I'm not used to that. It feels strange, like I'm moving around in someone else's body.

In my mind, I'm barefoot like Huckleberry Finn, but I don't tell any-

body that. Not my music teachers, not Karen and James, not the kids at school, not my caseworker, not that reporter from Kansas City Artweek who interviewed me about our spring concert with the symphonic. They'd

think I was ungrateful. Grandma Rose always said that an ungrateful heart makes an unhappy life. I want to be happy.

Of course I'm thankful for these new shoes. Who wouldn't be?

But deep in my heart, a part of me will always be barefoot, running through the shallows of Mulberry Creek, with my eyes closed and my arms stretched out like I could fly.

That girl doesn't wear the right shoes, but she's lighter than air. The sun pushes hard through the trees, and she's soaked in it until it's deep down inside her. She stops and stands with her feet in the water. The glow reflects all around and the sycamore leaves whisper, then hush. She holds her breath, afraid to move. She can feel God in everything. He touches her with His fingertip, and her heart is drenched in light.

"Pick me up and take me away," she says in her mind, and she waits. But it doesn't happen. The answer is always no. She wishes the river would rise and sweep her off, carry her to someplace where it's eas-

ier to be.

But the river doesn't listen. . . .

I set down the handwritten essay and looked across the desk at the thirteen-year-old girl on the other side. She seemed small sitting there, caramel-colored fingers fiddling nervously between her knees, body huddled against the office chair like she was trying to disappear into it. Her long, straight dark hair fell around her face like a shield, making her look like a Native American girl in some turn-of-the-century photo, afraid the camera would steal her soul.

"Everything OK, Dell?" Leaning back in my chair, I tried to appear empathic, nonthreatening.

She flicked the mistrusting glance they all use for social workers, counselors, court advocates, teachers-anyone with the power to interfere in their lives, to ferret out the adult truths they hide behind their childhood faces.

"Uh-huh." She shrugged noncommittally.

"Do you know why you're here?"

"Yes." No further comment.

I chuckled, and she glanced up, surprised. "Not much of a talker, huh?" The joke lightened her up for an instant before the shields rose again. My mind flashed back to an adolescent counseling course last year in grad school-ask only open-ended questions. So far, I hadn't had many occasions to actually counsel anyone at Harrington Arts Academy. Mostly my job consisted of arranging class schedules, writing grant applications and press releases, maintaining attendance sheets, calling substitute teachers, giving parent tours, and resolving spats among kids. If any real counseling was needed, families with kids at Harrington could afford private-practice psychologists.

Which was why Dell Jordan seemed like such an enigma, sitting there in my office. Foster kids from backwater towns like Hindsville, Missouri, didn't get into schools like Harrington-not these days, anyway. Harrington may have once been conceived as a magnet school for talented kids from all sectors of society, but where competition is stiff and prestige is high, those who can afford the private lessons and the expensive instruments and the high-profile letters of recommendation win out. In the seven weeks I'd been middle school counselor, I hadn't seen many needy-but-talented kids walking the halls. Harrington students came in bright packages with designer labels. They glittered with the glow of self-confidence, wore easy smiles that said, Look at me; I'm someone special. I'm a star.

But not Dell Jordan. I'd caught only a few glimpses of her these past weeks. She was a slim shadow on the fringes, adept at getting lost in the crowd-not a hard thing to accomplish in a large student population. "Can you tell me why you're here?"

"Because I'm stupid." It was a flat statement. No sarcasm or teenage attitude.

"What makes you say that?"

Picking at a fingernail, she twisted her full lips to one side, then finally answered. "Because it's true. I can't pass English because I'm stupid. That's why I had to write that essay. For extra credit, or else I'd flunk."

"Well, Mrs. Morris's English class is tough." That much was true. Mrs. Morris was old, grim-faced, a stickler for the rules, even when the rules needed to be bent. "I didn't do so well in there, myself."

Blinking, she jerked her head up, and I could see the wheels turning. How could the blond-headed grown-up lady in the pantsuit have ever been in Mrs. Morris's English class? No doubt at twenty-seven, sitting behind the counselor's desk, I looked ancient to her, which meant that Mrs. Morris was right up there with the Crypt Keeper.

Dell sank back miserably. "I hate English."

"Yeah, I did, too," I admitted, focusing on the papers as I jotted some notes in her file.

Shifting in her chair, she leaned closer to see what I was writing. "Am I gonna get kicked out?"

"Of course not." I didn't look up, but continued writing. Kids usually found it easier to talk to the top of a head. "Did you want to get kicked out?"

"Huh-uh." The answer came without hesitation, the first definitive thing she'd said, other than, Because I'm stupid. "I want to stay. I like music. I love music."

Glancing up, I caught a glitter of enthusiasm in her dark eyes. She scooted forward in the chair and the thick brown-black hair fell away from her face, which was suddenly bright and animated. This was not the same kid who hated English. "I see you're good at it." I motioned to the notes in the file. "What do you play?"

"Oh, lots of stuff." She was remarkably talkative now that we were entering territory outside Mrs. Morris's English class. "Piano, guitar, the flute some, and I want to learn violin, but, gosh, that's hard. I do vocal, too."

"Wow. That's quite a laundry list." Between that and the notes in her file, I could see why a foster kid from Hindsville had been accepted into the seventh-grade program at Harrington in her first year of application. She had...