Authors: Inglath Cooper
Tags: #Romance, #Young Adult
OSES. . .SO SWEET AND ADORABLE
DIDN’T WANT TO STOP READING IT
COULD HAVE PUT IT DOWN AND PICKED IT UP AGAIN IN THE MORNING, BUT
DIDN’T WANT TO
ADORED THIS BOOK...WHAT ROMANCE SHOULD BE, ENTWINED WITH REAL FEELINGS, REAL LIFE AND ROSES BLOOMING
ATS OFF TO THE AUTHOR, BEST BOOK
HAVE READ IN A WHILE
AM A SUCKER FOR SWEET LOVE STORIES
HIS IS DEFINITELY ONE OF THOSE
T WAS A VERY EASY, WELL WRITTEN, BOOK
T WAS EASY TO FOLLOW, DETAILED, AND DIDN’T LEAVE ME HANGING WITHOUT ANSWERS.” -
DON’T GIVE IT OFTEN, BUT
AM GIVING IT HERE – THE SACRED
A GIFT OF GRACE
CONSUMED IT IN ONE SITTING
TURNED THE LAST PAGE, IT WAS THREE IN THE MORNING
.” — M
! “. . .
MORE A WORK OF ART THAN A STORY
. . .T
RAGEDIES AFFECT ENTIRE FAMILIES AS WELL AS CLOSE LOVED ONES, AND THIS STORY PORTRAYS THAT BEAUTIFULLY AS WELL AS GIVING THE READER HOPE THAT SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IS
A GIFT OF GRACE
FOR ALL OF US
.” — C
WARM CONTEMPORARY FAMILY DRAMA STARRING LIKABLE PEOPLE COPING WITH TRAGEDY AND TRIUMPH
.” 4 1/2 S
. — H
“A GIFT OF GRACE
IS A BEAUTIFUL, INTENSE, AND SUPERBLY WRITTEN NOVEL ABOUT GRIEF AND LETTING GO, SECOND CHANCES AND COMING ALIVE AGAIN AFTER DEVASTATING ADVERSITY
!! A GIFT OF GRACE
IS A THREE-HANKY READ...BETTER MAKE THAT A
BOX OF TISSUES READ
HAVEN’T CRIED SO MUCH WHILE READING A BOOK IN A LONG LONG TIME
OOPER’S SKILL MAKES
A GIFT OF GRACE
TOTALLY BELIEVABLE, TOTALLY ABSORBING...AND MAKES
UCKER VIBRANTLY ALIVE
HIS BOOK WILL GET INTO YOUR HEART AND IT WILL
. A GIFT OF GRACE
IS SIMPLY STUNNING IN EVERY WAY—BRAVA
IGHLY, HIGHLY RECOMMENDED
!” - 4 1/2 H
“...A WOMAN WITH SECRETS...
A POWERFUL LOVE STORY LACED WITH TREACHERY, DECEIT AND OLD WOUNDS THAT WILL NOT HEAL...ENCHANTING TALE...WEAVED WITH PASSION, HUMOR, BROKEN HEARTS AND A COMMANDING LOVE THAT WILL HAVE YOUR HEART SOARING AND CHEERING FOR A HAPPILY EVER AFTER LOVE
ATE IS STRONG-WILLED, PASSIONATE AND SUFFERS A BRUISED HEART
OLE IS SEXY, STUBBORN AND ALSO SUFFERS A BRUISED HEART...GRIPPING PLOT
LOOK FORWARD TO READING MORE OF
Copyright © 2012 by Inglath Cooper.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout ©2013
Cover © Sarah Hansen
Nashville – Part One –
Ready to Reach/Inglath Cooper. -- 1st ed.
For everyone who loves dogs, books, and music. Don’t they make life sweeter?
EAR AND A
AMMER AND A
I’ve been praying since before I can ever actually remember learning how. Mama says I took to praying like baby ducks to their first dip in a pond, my “please” and “thank you” delivered in a voice so sweet that she didn’t see how God would ever be able to say no to me.
Mama says my praying voice is my singing voice, and that anybody listening would know right off that the Father himself gave that voice to me. Two human beings, especially not her and one so flawed as the man who was supposedly my Daddy, would ever be able to create anything that reminiscent of Heaven.
I’m praying now. Hard as I ever have. “Dear Lord, please let this old rattletrap, I mean, faithful car Gertrude, last another hundred miles. Please don’t let her break down before I get there. Please, dear Lord. Please.”
A now familiar melody strings the plea together. I’ve been offering up the prayer for the past several hours at fifteen-minute intervals, and I’m hoping God’s not tired of my interruptions. I’ve got no doubt He has way more important things on His plate today. I wonder now if I was a fool not to take the bus and leave the car behind altogether. It had been a sentimental decision, based on Granny’s hope that her beloved Gertrude would help get me where I wanted to go in this life.
And leaving it behind would have been like leaving behind Hank Junior. I reach across the wide bench seat and rub his velvety-soft Walker Hound ear. Even above the rattle-wheeze-cough of the old car’s engine, Hank Junior snores the baritone snore of his deepest sleep. He’s wound up in a tight ball, his long legs tucked under him, his head curled back onto his shoulder. He reminds me of a duck in this position, and I can’t for the life of me understand how it could be comfortable. I guess it must be, though, since with the exception of pee and water breaks, it’s been his posture of choice since we left Virginia this morning.
Outside of Knoxville, I-40 begins to dip and rise, until the stretch of road is one long climb after the other. I cut into the right hand lane, tractor-trailer trucks and an annoyed BMW whipping by me. Gertrude sounds like she may be gasping her last breath, and I actually feel sorry for her. The most Granny ever asked of her was a Saturday trip to Winn-Dixie and the post office and church on Sundays. I guess that was why she’d lasted so long.
Granny bought Gertrude, brand-spanking new, right off the lot, in 1960. She named her after an aunt of hers who lived to be a hundred and five. Granny thought there was no reason to expect anything less from her car if she changed the oil regularly and parked her in the woodshed next to her house to keep the elements from taking their toll on the blue-green exterior. It turned out Granny was right. It wasn’t until she died last year and left Gertrude to me that the car started showing her age.
What with me driving all over the state of Virginia in the past year, one dive gig to another, weekend after weekend, I guess I’ve pretty much erased any benefits of Granny’s pampering.
We top the steep grade at thirty-five. I let loose a sigh of relief along with a heartfelt prayer of thanks. The speedometer hits fifty-five, then sixty and seventy as we cruise down the long stretch of respite, and I see the highway open out nearly flat for as far ahead as I can see. Hank Junior is awake now, sitting up with his nose stuck out the lowered window on his side. He’s pulling in the smells, dissecting them one by one, his eyes narrowed against the wind, his long black ears flapping behind him.
We’re almost to Cookeville, and I’m feeling optimistic now about the last eighty miles or so into Nashville. I stick my arm out the window and let it fly with the same abandon as Hank Junior’s ears, humming a melody I’ve been working on the past couple days.
A sudden roar in the front of the car is followed by an awful grinding sound. Gertrude jerks once, and then goes completely limp and silent. Hank Junior pulls his head in and looks at me with nearly comical canine alarm.