A Peach of a Pair

PRAISE FOR

Palmetto Moon

“The richness of the locale, the uniqueness of the characters, and the slow-moving but engrossing rhythm of the story make
Palmetto Moon
a fairy tale to be savored . . . Pick up
Palmetto Moon
and let her take you on a delightful journey to the Lowcountry. It is a magical place where fairy tales are a part of real-life adventures.”

—
The Huffington Post

“Boykin does a marvelous job of depicting life in postwar America. The details of cars, clothing, dusty country roads, and small-town life are evocative of the late 1940s, and the people are drawn with depth and insight. Readers will fall in love with Frank, be charmed by Vada, and cheer for Claire and her boys. An extra bonus in this excellent novel is the inclusion of recipes for the mouthwatering Lowcountry food described throughout.”

—
BookPage

“This book had me from the very beginning. The cover caught my eye but the story drew me in and kept me captivated . . . This read is like a breath of fresh air.”

—
A Southern Girl’s Bookshelf

“A book that blends innocence, determination, friendship, and romance into the perfect book.”

—
Open Book Society

“Beautifully descriptive writing . . . Distinct characters, a sweet romance, and a strong theme of independence are the highlights of this thought-provoking, nostalgic, and tender story. Every word Boykin writes will captivate readers.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A beautiful novel . . . Kim Boykin’s ability to set the scene is incredible . . . A beautifully authentic and inspiring story.”

—
A Novel Thought

“
Palmetto Moon
is superbly written and does a great job of bringing you along in the story . . . The characters are all well written . . . Overall, I really enjoyed this book and I can’t wait to read her others.”

—
Southeast by Midwest

“If you’re after a sweet Southern romance, then
Palmetto Moon
could well be for you.”

—
Have Book Will Read

PRAISE FOR

The Wisdom of Hair

“In Kim Boykin’s novel, hair is not only wise, it’s witty and eloquent. As we’ve long suspected, our hair can define us. It can also teach us things about ourselves that will surprise and change us.
The Wisdom of Hair
is a lovely, engaging novel. Zora Adams is a heroine to root for!”

—Wendy Wax,
USA Today
bestselling author of
The House on Mermaid Point

“
The Wisdom of Hair
has a big, beating heart, and I couldn’t put it down. What I loved best about the book was the pervasive kindness; page after page, good people try their best, sometimes succeeding and sometimes failing. It’s hard to write an engaging novel about (mostly) nice people, but Kim Boykin has pulled it off.”

—Ann Napolitano, author of
A Good Hard Look

“Well-drawn characters and depth lie beneath the beauty treatments in this affecting debut.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Boykin is a new voice in Southern women’s fiction, and her strong, flawed female characters should appeal to fans of Dorothea Benton Frank and Karen White.”

—
Booklist

“Filled with quirky characters and a lot of heart . . . A story that readers will want to savor.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Boykin’s Faulkner-esque regionalism heightens the interest . . . A little sentimental, a little raw, and a lot local, Boykin’s
The Wisdom of Hair
is a thoughtful but breezy poolside read—or fireside read.”

—
Fort Mill Times
(SC)

“A beautiful and highly engrossing novel that I was unable to put down.”

—
Romance Junkies

“A story of change and empowerment, love and forgiveness, and the ability to find strength within one’s self and those who care about you.”

—
Book Queen Reviews

“In the tradition of Wendy Wax’s
Single in Suburbia
and Ann Napolitano’s
Within Arm’s Reach
comes the Southern tale of Zora Adams, daughter of an alcoholic Judy Garland impersonator.”

—
Library Journal

T
ITLES
BY
K
IM
B
OYKIN

The Wisdom of Hair

Palmetto Moon

A Peach of a Pair

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

Copyright © 2015 by Kim Boykin.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19800-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Boykin, Kim, date.

A peach of a pair / Kim Boykin. — Berkley trade paperback edition.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-425-28199-4

I. Title.

PS3602.O95P43 2015

813'.6—dc23

2015007538

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2015

Cover photos: woman © Muna Nazak / Trevillion; polka dot oval © Oksana Gribakina / Thinkstock

Cover design by Judith Lagerman.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

F
OR
M
OM
AND
HER
SISTER
, L
EILA
.
F
OR
MY
SISTERS
, J
OAN
AND
J
ENNY
.
A
ND
FOR
C
OLUMBIA
C
OLLEGE
SISTERS
EVERYWHERE
.

I’m not sure Nettie’s story would have gotten written if it weren’t for Janet Cotter, who shared her love for Columbia College with me and introduced me to the true sisterhood the college is known for. Debbie Chick, librarian extraordinaire, at the Kershaw Country Library in Camden, South Carolina, thanks for your invaluable contributions to this book. Thanks also to Tilara Monroe and Jayne Bowers, who were generous with their time and thoughts on Camden in the 1950s. To Laurie Funderburk, owner of Books on Broad, thank you for supporting my work and pointing me in the right direction during my research.

As always, huge thanks to Doni Jordan, my dear friend, who planted seeds for this story without knowing it. Thank you, Paul Mask, assistant director AFNR and assistant dean extension administration agriculture, at Alabama Cooperative Extension System/Auburn University. I’m incredibly grateful for your thoughts on Alabama Agriculture and what Satsuma might have been like in 1953.

Thanks forever to HRH and Pulpwood Queen, Kathy Murphy, for suggesting I contact Jane McConnell when I was looking for folks who grew up in Palestine, Texas. While Jane’s a Dallas gal through and through, she was kind enough to introduce me to some wonderful folks who shared their love for Palestine. Sara Nell Bible, Ann Lynne Bailey, Lee Brown, and Tomé Nell Gregg, you have my deepest gratitude for sharing memories of your hometown with me. You all have such fabulous names; I’m definitely stealing them for a book one day.

I’m so grateful to Jane Tuttle at the J. Drake Edens Library at Columbia College and the reference librarians at the Palestine Public Library who were wonderful resources to me. Same goes for Stuart Whitaker and his incredible photographs of Palestine. His commitment to the history of his hometown was a godsend. While Stuart told me the Redlands Hotel was not used as a hotel in 1953, I used a smidgen of poetic license and set a scene there anyway because I like the name.

Heartfelt thanks to Shari Bartholomew, a cardio care nurse who knows her way around a heart and a good book, and to Denise Stout Holcomb, booklover, and friend.

I’m one lucky girl to have Leis Pederson for an editor and Kevan Lyon as my agent. Y’all rock! Last, only because I love to give him a hard time, thanks to my brother-in law, Dr. Darrell Boykin, for being my go-to guy whenever I have medical questions. You’re the best.

Thursday, March 26, 1953

M
ail call,” old Miss Beaumont bellowed into the commons room, and a flock of girls descended on her like biddies after scratch feed. Except for me. Normally, I would have been right there with them, clamoring for news from home. But since Mother called right after the tornado hit last month to say everyone back home in Satsuma was still in one piece, there hasn’t been a single word from anyone. Not even Brooks.

It was bad enough that Hurricane Florence blew through in September and smashed much of Alabama to bits. Six months later, just when everyone was getting a handle on putting my hometown back together, a tornado roared through, undoing Satsuma all over again. And while I wanted Miss Beaumont to bellow my name, I was sure the folks back home were too busy with the cleanup to write.

On good days, the silence was unsettling, and on bad days,
it turned my stomach inside out. But I knew better than to complain.

Three and a half years ago, I’d been dying to get out of
the armpit of Alabama
to study music and accepted a full ride to the most exclusive women’s college in South Carolina. Funny how, back then Satsuma, even Alabama herself, seemed too small for me. Now, all I can think about is moving back home, and it won’t be long, just eight weeks till graduation.

I missed my mother and Sissy like it was the first day of my freshman year. And if I let myself think of the very long list of the people I love who have stopped writing me since those awful catastrophes, I would never stop crying. And Brooks. Loyal, faithful Brooks, who loved me enough to let me go away to college, saying he would wait forever if he had to for me to be his bride. The thought of how much I loved him, missed him, made my heart literally ache with a dull pain that left me in tears.

I was sure Brooks was working himself to death, helping rebuild Satsuma, because that’s the kind of guy he was, always building something. At Christmastime, he proposed, a promise without a ring, but a promise from Brooks Carter is as certain as my next breath.

Miss Beaumont called the name of one of the catty girls who are jealous of me because I am the only ’Bama belle at Columbia College. Maybe in the whole state of South Carolina. She cut her eye around at me, waved three letters, relishing the fact that I had none. My roommate, Sue, had one clutched to her chest, praying for more as hard as I’ve prayed for word from home. Something. Anything.

Sue had badgered me to call home. Collect. I knew my family would accept the charges, but I was afraid of the news that must be so terrible, nobody could bring themselves to call the pay phone in
my hallway. So I waited for letters. I craved them as much as I dreaded them.

Since I went away to college, Mama and Sissy, who just turned nineteen last month, have written me every week, sometimes twice a week. Nana Gilbert and Grandma Pope wrote just as often, always slipping in a newspaper clipping from home, sometimes a dollar bill, whenever they had it to spare. With nineteen cousins who are all tighter than a new pair of shoes, I could always count on letters from them. One day I received twenty-two, a record at the college; it was better than Christmas. And Brooks, my beloved one true love, his letters were always like Christmas and the Fourth of July rolled into one.

Brooks loves and knows me better than anyone. He should; we’d been sweethearts since the fourth grade. While it has been a little rough with my studying music and education here in Columbia, and him back home in Satsuma, Brooks has been the most wonderful, understanding man in the world. Of course when I got the scholarship, he wasn’t at all happy, but he knew I was working toward our future. Me a teacher, maybe even a church pianist too, him running the feed store his daddy left him.

Lots of girls here have diamonds and are getting married the moment they graduate. But Brooks and I are waiting until next summer. He said it would be a good idea to get a year of teaching experience under my belt before we’re wed. He’s always so sensible like that, forward thinking, which I am not.

“Sue Dennis,” Miss Beaumont yelled. Sue snatched the letter from her and cocked her head at me, reminding me to be hopeful. But I knew there would be nothing for me, not until Satsuma was put together again. And it must be bad back home, much worse than Mother let on for the news from home to have stopped
altogether. As awful as that was, the worst part was knowing in my heart why.

I shook my head at Sue and forced a thin smile.

“Nettie Gilbert,” Miss Beaumont called like the world had not just ended. I kept my seat on the kissing couch in the commons room. Sue jumped up and down for me, squealing, but for the life of me I couldn’t move. She grabbed the letter from Miss Beaumont’s withered old fingers and flew to my side.

“It’s from Brooks,” she gushed. “I just know it is.”

But I knew it’s wasn’t. Mother’s letter-perfect handwriting marked the front. I turned it over to see the flap she always sealed with a tiny mark,
xoxo
, but there was nothing. Someone was dead, their long obituary folded up inside. Someone so precious to me, no one, not even my own mother, could bear to break the news to me.

“Open it,” Sue said. She’d already read her first letter, from her beau back home in Summerville. Her face was still flush. Sometimes we read our letters to each other, but lately, she’d kept the ones from Jimmy to herself since she visited home last. Even though their June wedding was right around the corner, I suspected they did the deed the last time she was home, and her letters were too saucy to share.

On the last night of Christmas break, I’d wanted to go all the way with Brooks and would have if Sissy hadn’t fetched us from the orange grove. We’d taken a blanket there to watch the sunset. It was a perfect night. As crisp as a gulf night can be in December. The perfect time, the perfect place, but Sissy, who could never leave Brooks alone, insisted we play Parcheesi with the family. When I protested, all it took was a
Mother said
from her, and Brooks was folding up the blanket, putting it back in the knapsack along with my chance at becoming a woman.

“I’ll be at your graduation before you know it,” he promised when I gave him a pouty look. “And next summer, you’ll be my June bride,” he whispered like it was naughty. His breath sent chills down my thighs and made me hate Sissy, just a tiny bit.

At Christmastime, I saw the devastation from Hurricane Florence firsthand, but after the tornado roared through Satsuma a few weeks ago, I knew it was much worse. When I’d called, Mother had sworn everyone was okay. But I knew if something were wrong, if someone were terribly injured, she’d try to keep a tight lip, at least until I graduated. Partly for me because she loved me, and partly because I would be the first on both sides of my family to get my degree.

Mother had tried college, and then got married the summer after her freshman year. But I also know part of my mother was still angry at me for going so far away when I could have gone to ’Bama, which did
not
have a decent music program.

“Come on, Nettie, read it,” Sue chided. But my heart refused to let my hands open the letter; I passed it off to Sue as she drug me back to our room.

“Sit,” she ordered, pushing me gently down onto my bed. “You’re being silly. It’s something wonderful, I’m sure of it,” she gushed, reaching for her letter opener. She slit the top of the envelope, pulled out a small white card, and offered it to me again.

Tears raced down my face, my neck. When I pushed it away, a sheet of lined notebook paper folded into a perfect rectangle escaped from the card and fell to the floor. Sue snatched it up while scanning the card. Her smile faded, and her face was ghostly white.

“Oh, Nettie,” she whispered, unfolding the letter from my mother.

“It’s Brooks, isn’t it?” She nodded. “Oh, God.”

I threw myself across the bed, sobbing. Brooks was dead. I would never see his beautiful face. Hear his voice rumble my name. Feel his arms wrapped tight around me, making me feel adored. Safe. Loved. The life that we’d planned would never amount to anything more than just words whispered between two lovers.

“Nettie.” Sue lay down beside me, stroking my hair. “My sweet Nettie, you need to read this.”

I couldn’t. I buried my face in my pillow. She whispered how strong I was, how life wasn’t fair, how very sorry she was my heart was broken to bits, and held me until I was all cried out. After I don’t know how long, I shook my head and looked at her. “I just can’t believe Brooks is dead.”

Sue gnawed her bottom lip the way she did when she was taking a test. “He’s not dead, Nettie.” Her hand trembled as she put Mother’s letter in my hand. “He’s getting married.”

“What?” I jerked the page away from her, and the card fell onto my lap. Neat white stock with two little doves at the top. Mother might have been a farmer’s wife from Satsuma, but her well-worn etiquette book sat atop the Bible on her bedside table. And as far as Dorothy Gilbert was concerned, they were one and the same. Except the invitations weren’t sent out months in advance. They’d been done so quickly, they were not even engraved, and the wedding was four weeks away.

Brooks’s name should be below mine, but it was below Sissy’s—Jemma Renee Gilbert, glared at me,
cordially inviting
me to her wedding. Worse yet,
the parents
of Brooks and Sissy were cordially inviting me too.

“This must be some kind of a sick joke,” Sue whispered. “How can they do this to you?”

She read my mind and uttered the words I could not bring myself to say. How
could
they?
How could Brooks?

My hands trembled so hard it was difficult to read the impeccably neat handwriting.

Dear Nettie,

It might seem cruel to send this letter along with a proper invitation, but I couldn’t bring myself to call you, and I wasn’t given much notice regarding this matter. I also know you well enough to know you would have to see the invitation to truly believe it. Although I do regret not having enough time to have them engraved.

I’m sorry to be the one to give you the news about Brooks and Sissy. I love you, Nettie, and I love your sister. I’m not condoning her behavior or the fact that she is in the family way, but you are blood. You are sisters. No man can break that bond, not even Brooks.

There’s money and a bus ticket paper-clipped to the invitation. I’ve checked the schedules. You should be able to leave Columbia on Thursday the week of the wedding after your morning classes and get back by Sunday night. I know how you hate to miss class, and if you are also missing some wonderful end-of-the-year party, I’m sorry. So very sorry.

But the milk has been spilled, Nettie. Come home and stand up with your sister. She needs you. She’s a wreck, and it makes me worry about the baby.

Just come home.

Love,

Mother