Like Sweet Potato Pie

To my husband, Athos, who’s sprinkled a lot of sugar and spice on this wrinkled old American sweet potato. Thanks for seven unforgettable years.

Writing a book is a bit like a recipe—a lot editing and plot twisting, a splash of re-writing, a sprinkle of wild ideas, a good dose of craziness, and a pinch of pure miracle. Whip everything together with a deadline in mind, and
voila
! Dessert’s on the table. I just have to uncover my eyes before I reach in to taste the first bite.

And when it comes to baking books, nobody does a better job than Roger Bruner and his wife, Kathleen, who’ve coached me every step of the way, reading and rereading my rough manuscripts until their eyes burn. Roger, your own books, the fiction-writing craft books you’ve given me, and your urging to join ACFW has made such a difference!

Cindy Lowry, thanks for all the invaluable IRS/back tax info and for answering my questions so patiently. I’m in your debt!

Lessa Goens, one-in-a-million cousin, cop, and soulmate (how often does a girl get one of those?!)—you’re the best! I’ll never understand how you pull ideas out of thin air or text me back within minutes with the perfect plot fix-it I’d never considered.

Jenn Fromke, Christy Truitt, Shelly Dippel, Karen Schravemade—YOU ARE AMAZING! How on earth I’m allowed to be in the same crit group with such talented women is a pure mystery. Somebody must’ve been asleep the day I joined.

Since this book is as much about love as it is writing, a big thank you to Kathy Cooksey and Cherilyn Amborski, who’ve been my prayer/relationship/child-raising partners for years now, always putting up with my grumbling and questions and pointing me toward the Savior. I’ve learned so much from you! Thank you also to my sweet Aunt Lois Lambert, who—even without a husband or child—has taught me so much about love, life, and relationships. I can’t ever thank you enough for your help and advice all these years. You are an inspiration!

To my editor, Rebecca Germany, plus April, Laura, Linda, and Jessie at Barbour Books, thank you for your unending patience with a newbie.

To Athos and Ethan, I love you more than I can say!

To my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, thank you for your amazing love. I will never be the same.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Discussion Questions

About the Author

S
aturday afternoon, and I could hardly wait to hang up my stained apron and flee Barnes & Noble. The long day of shelving books and pinch-hitting in the Starbucks café with two baristas out sick left my feet screaming for mercy. I liked drinking coffee, not steaming it. Ugh. Even my hair smelled like espresso.

But there was no time to complain about my aching back or the foaming milk roaring in my ears. I needed to get to my friend Becky—and fast. She was part of my plot. My lips twisted into a smug little smile.

I pulled up to her cozy brick house and honked the horn, hanging my head out the window. “Hurry up! We can’t be late!”

“Hold yer horses, Shiloh P. Jacobs! I done got ev’rything!” Becky ran out hauling two heavy plastic bags and a cardboard mason jar box.

I lowered my sunglasses—pricey Dolce & Gabbanas, from the days when I actually had money—and gave her an exaggerated wink. “Just put the goods in the trunk.”

Becky looked great. Ever since arriving in this little Virginia town from my reporter’s post in Tokyo, I’d vigorously attacked her wardrobe. “The Fashion Nazi,” she called me.

Still, Becky had thrown away a lot of her bulky plaid stuff and the oversize black clothes that tended to wash her out. Ditto with sloppy NASCAR and Future Farmers of America sweatshirts and the like. I’d convinced her to make charcoal gray and brown her new black and to add in softer tones like aqua and lemon yellow that made her blond hair shine.

“Fashion Nazi” is a bit over the top. I’m just a New York Yankee who knows that nobody looks good in a faded 1990s Ricky Rudd T-shirt that could fit Uncle Cletus.

Today Becky impressed even me—a frilly, sea-green eyelet top with cap sleeves that matched her eyes, plus a pair of crisp white capris. New sandals from Payless. Artsy emerald-green earrings I’d convinced her to buy at JCPenney’s.

Wait a second. I squinted and leaned in closer. Did I see
nail polish?
On Becky Donaldson?

“Becky?” I blinked. “Who are you? Where’s Becky?”

She stared at me like I’d burst into flames then put her hands on her hips. “You started this whole shindig, Miss Fashion Plate, so don’t gimme no lip!”

I feigned confusion. “Aren’t you always calling me Miss Independent? Which is it?”

“Yer gonna be Miss Flattened if ya don’t open up yer trunk this minute!”

She grinned, and I noticed the happy color in her cheeks. I nodded in satisfaction. Becky’s heart was healing.

She’d suffered through a few tough weeks after her surprise pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage, which followed four painful years of infertility. But nothing kept Becky Donaldson down for long.

“What’s in the box?” I glanced over at the giant cardboard square that she cradled like eggs.

“Stuff,” she sniffed, slamming the car door shut and buckling up. “You’ll see soon enough.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“G’won!” She pushed my head forward. “Get out that lead foot a yers or we’ll be late!”

The afternoon dazzled, sun shining on the last of the season’s bright yellow goldenrod blooming along the end of Becky’s driveway. During my few months in Virginia, I’d learned a few things. After goldenrod comes that crisp, smoke-scented air, like a ripe apple, that warns of fall. The deep blue early October sky. Frost on the grass.

And goldenrod never lies. Splashes of pumpkin orange and dusky yellow had already rippled through the woods, whispering of chilly mornings and scattering leaves. Summer had gone without a word, leaving me only a few wild-flung days of surprising warmth.

Like today. I peeled off my jacket and tossed it in the seat, backing out of the driveway.

“That thing ya hung on yer rearview mirror’s gone,” said Becky abruptly, flipping down the visor to check her …

Lipstick?
Becky considered ChapStick high-maintenance stuff. Aliens had abducted Becky. Or maybe she’d actually started listening to me.

“What’d ya do with it?” She flipped the visor shut.

“The
omamori?
”

“Yeah. That red dangly thing that said who-knows-what in Jap’nese.”

“Right. A charm. You know, for good luck. I … well … decided I don’t need it anymore.” I smirked. “Unless you’re driving, and then I need all the good luck I can get.”

“Har-har,” Becky snarked. “I ken drive! Jest put me on Daytona Speedway an’ watch me go!”

“Exactly.”

She grinned. “Well, good fer you. Good luck ain’t worth a hoot anyway.”

I kept my eyes on the road, trying to think of some way to break the news to Becky. She had to know. But I couldn’t blast her to kingdom come either.

I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ve been thinking, Becky.” I kept my tone conversational, turning down a winding country road. “I really like root beer now. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that.”

“Root beer? Naw, don’t reckon so. The first time, ya told me it tasted like cheap NyQuil.” She glared at me.

I flinched. Back then, yeah, I probably did say something like that. “Sorry. People change though. I really like it now.”

“Well good! Yer finally startin’ to get some sense in that globetrottin’ head a yers. Livin’ in Japan all them years an’ eatin’ …?”

“I love sushi. Don’t you dare.” I waved a finger at her.

I couldn’t find sushi in Staunton. Not even a measly little piece of salmon. Know what futility feels like? Try hunting for pickled ginger slices in a grocery store stocked with lard and cornmeal.

“Raw fish? Shucks, Shah-loh,” she said, drawling out my name in her own distinctive Becky style. “I’d take a root beer an’ sweet potater pie over some piece a raw, dead fish any day!”

“Jesus ate fish,” I sniffed.

“Yeah, and He cooked it, too! That oughtta tell ya somethin’!”

Actually, He did.

She had that eyebrow up. Fixed an odd expression on me.

“What?” I glanced over.

“How’d ya know Jesus ate fish?” Becky’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t set foot in a church since they started buildin’ Talladega.”

“Talla-what?”

“The racetrack.”