Each Shining Hour

THE NOVELS OF WATERVALLEY

EACH SHINING HOUR

“Heartwarming, refreshing, and often amusing, this touching novel about a likable yet conflicted new doctor sent to a rural Tennessee town is a rare gem. A bustling medical practice, a budding romance, and a passel of small-town dramas make this a rich read, but a decades-old murder mystery adds the icing on the cake. The pristine setting and lovable characters will make readers search for Watervalley, Tennessee, on a map and plan a visit.”

—Karen White,
New York Times
bestselling author of
A Long Time Gone

“A young doctor, marking time until he can leave a somnolent farm town for the bustle of a big city, finds more excitement in Watervalley than he bargained for—an alluring woman, or two; an unsolved murder, or two; a crafty banker who knows more than he's saying; and a cache of . . . well, I'll let you find that out.
Each
Shining Hour
kept me reading far into the night hours!”

—Ann B. Ross,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Miss Julia series and
Etta Mae's Worst Bad-Luck Day

“Come back to Watervalley for another endearing tale of Dr. Luke Bradford and the good folks of this small Tennessee town. Heartwarming and tender,
Each Shining Hour
is a bright and lovely story.”

—Lynne Branard, author of
The Art of Arranging Flowers

MORE THINGS IN HEAVEN AND EARTH

“Told through the eyes of Dr. Luke Bradford, a newly minted MD, the story of the little town of Watervalley, Tennessee, and its inhabitants comes vividly to life. Jeff High's medical background gives him that cutting edge in the technical details of his tale, and his love of his native Tennessee and the human race shines from every page. Dr. Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly is delighted to welcome Luke, a transatlantic colleague to be fiercely proud of.”

—Patrick Taylor, MD,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Irish Country novels

“The best of small-town Americana and the eccentrics who live there is brought to life in
More Things in Heaven and Earth
. This story warmed me, made me laugh, and then kept a smile on my face. It's delightful, compassionate, humorous, tightly woven. If you're looking for a feel-good read, spend an afternoon with Jeff High's novel.”

—Charles Martin,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Unwritten
and
When Crickets Cry

“A well-spun story of the mystery and microcosm that is small-town America. Jeff High skillfully captures the healing places, the hurting places, and the places where we so often find out who we are truly meant to be.”

—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of
Tending Roses
and
The Prayer Box

More Things in Heaven and Earth

Each Shining
Hour

New American Library

Published by the Penguin Group

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New York, New York 10014

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A Penguin Random House Company

First published by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC

Copyright © Jeff High, 2014

Readers Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014

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.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGIS
TRADA

LIBRARY
OF
CON
GRESS
CATALOGING
-
IN
-
PUBLICATION
DATA
:

High, Jeff, 1957–

Each shining hour: a novel of watervalley/Jeff High.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-61837-0

1. Physicians—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 3. Small cities—fiction. I. Title.

PS3608.I368E23 2014

813'.6—dc23 2014017235

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

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.

This book is dedicated to my father-in-law,
Lloyd George Hartly Bardowell.

A gentle servant of God and man,
he never failed to give his best to each shining
hour.

How doth the little busy Bee

Improve each shining Hour

And gather Honey all the day

From every opening Flower. . . .

In Books, or Work, or healthful Play,

Let my first Years be passed,

That I may give for every Day

Some good Account at last.

—“How Doth the Little Busy Bee” by Isaac Watts

 

 

 

And the floors shall be full of wheat,

And the vats shall overflow with new wine and oil.

I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten.

—Joel 2:24–25

Watervalley, Tennessee

April 28, 1944

T
he grass was taller here, moist and cool in the dark April night, only a few sloping steps away from the road. He would rest for a while, keeping his hand pressed firmly over the small bullet hole above his right hip. But the handkerchief . . . the handkerchief was getting so
aked.

“It must have been a low-caliber pistol,” he whispered. “Perhaps a twenty-two.” It was only a small wound, barely penetrating the soft tissue.

He had been running. His suit was drenched with sweat. As he lay in the fresh, delicate grass, steam rose from him and drifted elusively into the soft air. He breathed in great heaving gasps, staring up into the vast, silent sky, an eternal canopy pulsing with a million radiant stars.

It was the telegram. He had come back for the telegram. He'd thought it was with everything else. But when he'd buried the box, he hadn't found it.

In his agony, he whispered softly: “Oh Elise; dear, precious Elise.” He would tell her everything. Explain everything. His mind drifted.
His eyes wanted to close. Then, down the far reaches of the road toward town, he heard the long, slow wail of a police siren. He stiffened. His thoughts raced. They were coming. Someone at one of the farmhouses must have heard the gunshot. He flattened himself deeper into the tall grass.

The car blew past, flying headlong toward the lake and stopping in the distance, the headlights pouring across the bandstand. No one had seen him. He would have to wait before moving again.

Once more he stared briefly into the infinite heavens. But now the stars were fading. “Elise; darling, beloved Elise. I will . . . I will tell you . . .” His breathing slowed. His eyes were surrendering. They grew tired, heavy, and in his delirium, he spoke tenderly, sliding into the distant language of his childhood. “I will tell you . . .
über die Diamanten
.”

I will tell you about the diamonds.