Authors: Laura McNeill
Sister Dear (43 page)
Without pausing to think, Allie nodded. Her heart thudded as Ben cupped her face in his hands.
“Wait,” Allie whispered, shaking her head. She pulled back, out of his embrace. “Ben, I can't, not right now. You left. And you didn't come back.”
Ben creased his brow. “I was crushed. You broke it off with me and broke my heart, Allie,” he said. “And when everything happened, I ran. I was trying to save my feelings. I told myself that what happened with Coach was a sign for me to throw myself into my work and forget you.”
Allie shook her head slowly.
“Is there any way . . . Allie? I mean, is there a chance that we could start over?” Ben asked. He didn't move to touch her. He didn't smile or beg or try to plead. It was just Ben, being Ben. The Ben she used to know. The Ben she loved.
“I-I have to focus on Caroline,” Allie said, her voice breaking. “It's been ten, now almost eleven, years. I've missed so much.” Tears clouded her vision.
When she wiped them away, Ben was nodding.
Allie sucked in a breath. “Can we . . . Let's just see where it goes, okay? One day at a time.”
She waited, emotions twisting, as Ben held her gaze. “I understand. You've got it.” After a beat, his mouth curved into a grin. “Come on,” he said. “Let's go and get Caroline. We need to celebrate.”
Allie looked up at him and smiled. This was a first step she could take. “All right. Let's go home.”
1. The novel's heroine, Allie Marshall, is a survivor. After being sent to prison, enduring intolerable situations, and fearing for her life, she still dreams of starting her life over and reuniting with her daughter. If you were in Allie's situation, what would keep your hope alive?
2. Emma harbors deep jealousy of her sister, despite Allie's fall from grace. Are any of her feelings justified?
3. Caroline often hides her true personality behind her best friend, Maddie. Why is it so difficult for Caroline to be herself?
4. Despite his ego and tough exterior, Sheriff Lee Gaines makes time to visit his wife in the nursing home every day. Do you believe that he truly loves June or are his actions just a show for the community?
5. Paul and Lily Marshall, Allie's parents, have an extremely difficult time dealing with Allie's incarceration. If Allie were your daughter, how would you handle the public scrutiny and gossip? Would you believe your child's innocence?
6. Ben stands by Allie, vowing to love and protect her no matter what happens in their lives. Did Allie do the right thing by breaking off the engagement? Why or why not?
7. What do you think about Brunswick's focus on high school
football? Have you heard of instances when a player's life might have been put in jeopardy, or safety compromised, in order for a team to win?
8. At the end of the novel, Emma sacrifices her own life in an attempt to save Caroline. Does this, at all, redeem her?
9. How do you imagine Allie's life will turn out after the novel ends?
Deepest gratitude to my talented and amazing editors, Amanda Bostic, Nicci Hubert, Karli Jackson, and Caroline Steudle. Thank you, also, to Katie Bond, Kristen Golden, and Kristen Ingebretson who designed the gorgeous cover.
Lots of love to my mother and father, who encouraged my enthusiasm for reading and books by turning off the TV while I was growing up . . . all summer, every summer. Hugs to my brother Mark, his wife Peg, and their family. I miss you all so much! And to Patrick and John Davidâyou are my world.
To my early readers, Jen McGee, Doug McCourt, and Maxine KidderâI can't thank you enough for your enthusiasm and encouragement.
To my literary familyâKellie Coates Gilbert, Kristy Cambron, Andrea Peskind Katz, Rachel Hauck, Kimberly S. Belle, Jennie Collins Belk, Sarah Miniaci, Melanie Dickerson, Samantha Stroh Bailey, Jim Kane, Tracie Banister, Samantha March, Jen Tucker, Julie Cantrell, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton, Tamara Welch, Suzy Missirlian
,
Amy Clipston, Lisa Wingate, and Karen PokrasâI am so lucky to have you in my life. Joshilyn Jackson and Anita Hughes, deepest appreciation for sharing your thoughts about my writing.
I am blessed to have the most wonderful friends in the world,
among them, Tara Jones, Laura Rash, Jenny Good, Mary Steudle, Simone Armstrong, Chris Hughes, Robert Stewart, April Sanders, Ellen Odom, Cecelia and Chuck Heyer, Simone Armstrong, Jamie Zamudio, Valerie Case, Jana Simpson, Linda and Ted Hicks, Lisa Emanuelli, Heidi Pritchett, Kippie Atkins, Jennifer Gresham, Jessica Sinn, Lora Campbell Roberts, Linda Moore, Tobi Helton, and the entire UA family.
Finally, I am indebted to my wonderful readers. Your reviews, e-mails, and letters mean the world to me! Without you, none of this would be possible.
Laura McNeill is a writer, mom, travel enthusiast, and coffee drinker. In her former life, she was a television news anchor for CBS News affiliates in New York and Alabama. Laura holds a master's degree in Journalism from The Ohio State University and is completing a PhD in Instructional Leadership at the University of Alabama. When she's not writing and doing homework, she enjoys running, yoga, and spending time at the beach. She lives in North Alabama with her family.
ENJOY AN EXCERPT
FROM LAURA MCNEILL'S
When your children are stolen, the pain swallows you whole. Logic fades, reason retreats. Desperation permeates the tiniest crevices of your mind. Nothing soothes the ache in your wounded soul.
Right in front of me, my sweet, charmed life fell to pieces. Everything destroyedâa hailstorm's wrath on a field of wildflowers. All I'd known . . . gone. Foolish me, I'd believed in magic, clung tight to false promises. The lies, spoken from tender lips, haunt me now, follow me, and whisper into my ear like a scorned lover.
What's left is emptiness.
Give up
, a voice urges.
Let go.
No! I argue back. My children aren't gone. Not yet. Precious and delicate, tiny fossils, they exist in glass-boxed isolation. Hidden. Protected.
And so tonight, I run. Blood pulses through my legs, my muscles protest; my lungs scream for more oxygen. Thick storm clouds brew
in the distance. The rain falls in blinding sheets. The force of it pricks my skin like needles, but the pain only makes me push harder.
I will rescue them.
Lightning flashes across the wet driveway. I skid to a stop and catch my breath, pressing a hand to my heaving chest.
They're here. My children are here.
Thunder booms and crashes, nearer now, and the wind whips my hair. A gust tosses tree branches to the ground. Birds cry and flutter to safety. An escaped sand bucket spins, clattering on the blacktop.
I grasp the railing and pull myself up the steps. At the top, the door is shiny-slick with water and humidity. Mother Nature howls and drowns out my knocking.
“Hello! Can you hear me?” With my palm open wide, I slap at the barrier, willing it to open. I will rescue my children. I will rescue them . . . or I will die trying.
One Month Earlier
Wednesday, March 24
Every day, somebody somewhere needs a hero.
Think about it. The mom lifting a two-ton truck to save her son after a car crash. The dadâwho can't swimâwho jumps in the water anyway to pull out his drowning daughter. The guy who kicks down the door of a burning building because his friend's kid is trapped inside.
All of a sudden, getting hurt doesn't matter. There's no thinking twice. Just a gut-pumping, jump-off-the-cliff, no turning back.
For these regular people, thrown into crazy life-or-death situations, there's that one big moment. Then they go back to work, their jobs, or school.
And it's someone else's turn.
I'm only in the third grade, but I've been waiting for my whole life.
Waiting for my chanceâmy moment to be a hero.
An ear-piercing shriek yanks me back to the school playground.
My best friend Mo runs up, breathless. “Emma Dunlop's stuck up in the oak tree.” He bends over, chest heaving in the humidity, and puts both hands on his knees. “She's freaking out.”
Shielding my eyes, I grit my teeth. The tree's as big as a monster, with twisted brown branches that extend like arms, thick emerald leaves at the fingertips. Spanish moss hangs from the lowest limbs, the ends curling like a snake's tail.
Though I can't see her through the tangle of limbs, I picture Emma hanging on tight to the rough bark. Shaking. Really scared. Trying not to look down at the brick-red clay.
I run a hand through my hair.
She's in trouble. And I know why.
Legend says a man's headâa genieâis hidden in the leaves and branches. Weird, rough pieces of wood make up his face. He has knots for eyes. A bump for his chin. It's for real. I've seen it.
All the kids know the story. If you touch the genie's nose, your wish will come true. Of course my dad doesn't believe in stuff like that and says I shouldn't either. He's a PhD and does an important job at the college. So I guess he knows what he's talking about.
But that's not going to save Emma now. I start to jog, then full-out sprint. At the base of the tree, I push through a crowd of my classmates. Third and fourth graders, gaping, heads tilted, mouths open like baby birds. When I reach the trunk, I squint up and find Emma's brand-new saddle shoes dangling high above me. I see pale, thin legs and the crisp edges of her plaid jumper. And despite everyone talking and whispering, I hear Emma crying. It's a whimpering wail, like a hurt animal.
“Y'all go on back inside now. Go back to class,” my teacher says, pushing the group back an inch or two. I end up jostled next to the school librarian, who's holding her hands like she's praying.
Our eyes meet. Mine flicker away.
“Don't even think about it, Jack,” she warns.
But I kick off my shoes anyway and grab hold of the trunk. Deep down in my belly, I make myself act like I'm not scared. I don't like
heights or even hanging upside down from monkey bars. But Emma needs me. And no one else is doing a thing.
Ms. Martin gasps, but she knows she's too late. I'm out of her reach before she can react. I think hard about one of my favorite superheroes, Daredevil. He's like an Olympic athlete and a master of martial arts. He's blind but uses his other senses to fight crime, beat up bad guys, and save the girl. If he can do it . . .
When I look back down at the ground, my stomach churns like I've eaten too many Snickers bars and guzzled a two-liter of Coke. I push the feeling away.
Climb, Jack
, I say to myself.
Just climb.
When I start to move my legs again, the first few feet are easy. Soon I'm above everyone's heads.
“They're going to get a ladder,” the librarian calls out. “Come on down here, Jack Carson, right this instant. Lord have mercy!”
At the sound of her screech, Emma wobbles. Her saddle shoes kick and knock some bark from a branch.
I can't come down now. She's slipping.
“They've called the fire department,” my teacher adds. “Truck's on the way.”
I pretend I don't hear her and move closer. My head starts to hurt. My ears are ringing. But I take a deep breath and hold on tight to the tree, concentrating on Emma. She's tiny, a first grader, with brown corkscrew curls and a yellow bow pinned to the side of her head. Her pink cheeks are streaked with dirt.
“Hey, Emma,” I say, making my voice calm. “Whatcha doing up here?”
She flushes pink. “I wanted to make a w-wish. For my birthday.”
A breeze ruffles the leaves, cooling the sweat on my forehead. My hands, gritty with dirt and bark, inch closer. I can almost reach her. “Well, let's make sure you get to your party.”
“But I haven't found the genie.” She begins to cry, which makes
her body wobble. The branch moves up and down, and she starts sobbing harder.