MacMillan
Press Presents:
An
Every Day Hero
By
Laura
Trentham
About
the Book:
From award-winning author Laura Trentham comes an
emotionally layered novel about redemption, second chances and discovering that
life is worth fighting for.
At thirty, Greer Hadley never expected to be forced
home to Madison, Tennessee with her life and dreams up in flames. A series of
bad decisions and even worse luck lands her community service hours at a
nonprofit organization that aids veterans and their families. Greer cannot
fathom how she’s supposed to help anyone deal with their trauma and loss when
everything that brought her joy has failed her.
Then Greer meets fifteen-year-old Ally Martinez, a
gifted girl who lost her father in action and now hides her pain behind a mask
of sarcasm. But Greer sees something undeniable that she can’t walk away from.
To make matters more complicated, Greer finds herself spending more and more
time with Emmett Lawson—a man with both physical and emotional scars of his
own. When a situation with Ally becomes dire, the two of them must become a
team to save her—and along the way they might just save themselves too.
Buy
Links:
Chapter
1
“Disorderly
conduct. Public intoxication. Resisting arrest.” Judge Duckett put down the
paper, linked his hands, and stared over his reading glasses from his perch
behind the bench with a combination of exasperation and fatherly disapproval.
Greer
Hadley shifted in her sensible heels and smoothed the skirt of the light pink
suit she’d borrowed from her mama for the occasion. “I’ll give you the first
two, Uncle Bill—” The judge cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. “Excuse
me—Judge Duckett—but I did not resist arrest.”
“That
you recall.” Deputy Wayne Peeler drawled the words out in the most sarcastic,
unprofessional manner possible.
She
fisted her hands and took a deep breath. The impulse to punch Wayne in the face
simmered below the surface like a volcano no longer at rest. But ten o’clock on
a Monday morning during her arraignment was not the smartest time to lose her
temper, and she’d promised herself not to add to her string of bad decisions.
She
sweetened her voice and bared her teeth at Wayne in the facsimile of a smile.
“I recall plenty, thank you very much.”
Truth
was she didn’t recall the minute details, but the shock of Wayne’s whispered
offer on Saturday night to make her troubles go away for a price had done more
to sober her up than the couple of hours spent in lockup waiting for her
parents.
Dressed
in his tan uniform, Wayne adjusted his heavy gun belt so often she imagined he
got off every night by rubbing his gun. Giving him a badge had only empowered
the part of him desperate for respect and approval. His nickname in high
school, “the Weasel,” had been well earned.
Unfortunately,
she was the unreliable narrator of her life at the moment and no one would
trust her recollections. Judge Duckett, her uncle Bill by marriage until he and
her aunt Tonya had divorced, rustled papers from his desk.
The
ethics of her former uncle acting as her judge were questionable, especially
considering they had remained close even after he’d remarried, but if nepotism
is what it took to make this nightmare go away, then she wouldn’t be the one to
lodge a complaint.
“A
witness claimed you were sitting quietly at the end of the bar until a song
played on the jukebox. What was the song?” Her uncle glanced at her over his
glasses again, which made him look like a stern teacher.
“‘Before
He Cheats’ by Carrie Underwood.” She forced her chin up.
His
mouth opened, closed, and he dropped his gaze back to the paper. A murmur broke
out behind her.
She
would not cry. She wouldn’t. She blinked like her life depended on a tear not
falling. Later, in the privacy of her childhood bedroom, she would bury her
face in the eyelet-covered pillow and let loose.
Beau
Williams, her cheating ex-boyfriend, was only partially to blame for her
embarrassing behavior. It was a confluence of setbacks that had had her holding
down the end of the bar. Hearing Carrie’s revenge anthem had hit a nerve
exposed by the shots of Jack. Rage had quickened the effects of the alcohol,
and that’s when things got fuzzy.
“Yes,
well. That is a rather … Let’s move on, shall we? The witness also claims after
a heartfelt, albeit slurred speech about the vagaries of relationships and how
the moral fiber of the Junior League of Madison was frayed, you fed five
dollars into the jukebox and played the same song for over an hour. ‘Crazy’ by
Patsy Cline, was it?”
Ugh.
She didn’t recall how much money she’d fed the machine, but it sounded like
something she would do. “Crazy” was one of her favorite songs. A master class
in conveying emotion through simple lyrics. She was just sorry she’d wasted
five dollars on Beau. He didn’t deserve her money, her heart, or Patsy.
“No
one can fault my taste in the classics.” Greer tried a smile, but her lips
quivered and she pressed them together.
Her
uncle continued to read from the witness statement, “You proceeded to throw two
glasses on the floor, shattering them, and attempted to break a chair across
the jukebox.”
She
swallowed hard. A vague picture of a frustratingly sturdy chair surfaced. The
fact the chair remained intact while she was falling apart had sent her anger
soaring higher and hotter. A glance from her uncle Bill over the paper had her
giving him a nod. She couldn’t deny it.
He
continued, “A patron called 911. When Deputy Peeler arrived, he pulled you away
from the jukebox and forced you outside. That’s where, he claims, you kicked
him … well, you know where.”
“Wayne
dragged me down the stairs—”
“Deputy
Peeler, if you please.” Wayne sniffed loudly.
“As
Deputy Peeler escorted me down the stairs, I lost my balance and fell. The heel
of my shoe jabbed into his crotch. Sorry.” Greer didn’t make an attempt to mask
her not-sorry voice with fake respect.
If
she accused Wayne of misbehavior on the job, he would deny it and spin it somehow
to make her look even more irresponsible. Lord knows, she’d embarrassed her
parents enough for a lifetime. Anyway, seeing him rolling on the ground and
cupping his crotch had been sweet payback.
“I
sustained an injury where that spike you call a heel caught me.” Wayne half
turned toward her.
Instead
of playing it smart and soothing his delicate male ego, she batted her eyes at
him. “I’m sure that’s left the ladies of Madison real upset.”
Wayne
took a step toward her. “You are such a—”
The
gavel knocked against the bench and her uncle stood, looming over them. “I’ve
heard enough, Deputy. Sit down.”
Wayne
turned on his heel and left Greer to face her uncle Bill. This was where she
would promise such a thing would never happen again, and he would give her a
stern warning before dismissing all charges.
“I’m
striking the resisting arrest charge. It was an accident.”
Greer
forced herself not to look over her shoulder and stick her tongue out at Wayne.
That left only two misdemeanors, which her uncle could expunge with a swipe of
his pen.
He
settled behind the bench and picked up his pen, his gaze on the papers. “You
will pay for any damages.”
“I’ve
already reimbursed Becky.” Technically, she’d had to use her parents’ money,
considering she’d crawled home from Nashville broke. “And apologized profusely.
You can be assured there will not be a repeat performance. I’ve learned my
lesson.”
“Good.
As for the other charges…”
Her
deep breath cleansed a portion of the tension across her shoulders, and a smile
born of relief appeared.
“You
will perform fifty hours of community service.”
Her
smile froze on her face. It sounded like a lot, but she’d been stupid and
immature and deserved punishment. “I understand. Clean roads are important.”
“Litter
pickup? Goodness no.” He took his glasses off and smiled at her for the first
time, but it wasn’t the jolly-uncle smile she was familiar with. “You have
talents that would be wasted on the side of the road picking up trash, Ms.
Hadley. You will spend your fifty hours working at the Music Tree Foundation.”
“I’m
not familiar with it.” She swallowed. The mention of music set her stomach
roiling. “Highway 45 was in terrible shape on my drive in last week.”
“The
foundation is a nonprofit music program that focuses on helping military
veterans and their families cope with the trauma they’ve endured serving our
country. They’re in need of volunteer songwriters and musicians.”
“I
can’t write or play anymore.” Her dream of hearing one of her songs on the
radio had died. Not in a blaze of glory but from a slow, torturous starvation
of hope. At thirty, she was resigned to finding a real job and cobbling
together a normal life in the place she’d tried to leave behind.
“My
decision is final. As far as I can determine, your brain—despite this lapse in
judgment—is in fine working order. You can and will help these men and women
heal through your gift of music. Unless you’d rather spend thirty days in
county lockup?”
Would
her uncle actually throw her in jail? For a month? “No, Your Honor, I don’t
want to go to county lockup.”
“Good.
Once you turn in your log with all your hours signed off by the foundation’s
manager, your record with this court will be cleared.” He handed her file to a
clerk. “Case closed. Next up is docket number fourteen.”
She
stood there until he met her gaze with his unflinching one. “Go home, Greer.”
Her
parents were waiting at the door to the courtroom. While they’d faced the
horror of having to bail their only child out of jail stoically, her mother’s
embarrassment and disappointment were ripe and all-encompassing. Greer wilted
and trailed her parents out of the courthouse.
She
felt like a child. An incompetent, needy child living in her old bedroom and
dependent on her parents for emotional and financial support. She thought she’d
hit rock bottom many times over the years, but her situation now had revealed
new lows.
The
silence in the car built into a painful crescendo.
“The
tiger lilies are lovely this year, don’t you think?” Her mother’s attempt at
normalcy was strained but welcome.
Her
father’s hands squeaked along the steering wheel as an answer.
Greer
huddled in the backseat and stared out the window, the clumps of flowers on the
side of the road an orange blur. As a teenager, she’d chafed at her parents’
protectiveness and had wanted nothing more than to escape to Nashville, where
she’d been convinced glory and fame awaited. Now she was home and a
disappointment not only to her parents but to herself. Even worse, she hadn’t
come up with a plan to turn her life around.
“Ira
Jenkins is back in the hospital. I thought I’d run by and check on him. Since
Sarah passed, he seems a shell of the man he once was.” Her mother turned to
face the backseat. “Would you like to come with me? I’m sure he’d be happy to
see you.”
“He
won’t remember me, Mama.”
“I’m
sure he will.”
Greer
scrunched farther down in the seat. The last thing she wanted was to make small
talk with a man she hadn’t seen in years.
“You’ll
have to get out eventually and face the music.” Her mother’s smile wavered and
threatened to turn into tears. “So to speak.”
Her
mother was trying, which was more than could be said for Greer at the moment.
Her parents deserved a better daughter. Someone successful they could brag on
at the Wednesday-night potlucks at church. Not a daughter they had to bail out
of jail.
“I
will. I promise. Just not to see Mr. Jenkins.” Greer leaned forward and
squeezed her mother’s hand over the seat, needing to give her something to hope
for even if Greer wasn’t sure what that might be.
Her
father cleared his throat. “You need to think about the future.”
He
ignored her mother’s whispered, “Not now, Frank.”
“A
job. Or back to school. We’ll put you through nursing or accounting or
something useful.” He shifted to meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “But you
can’t keep on like you’re doing. You need a purpose.”
“I’ll
start looking for a job tomorrow.” School had never been her wheelhouse. She’d
been sure she’d make it in Nashville and had never formulated a backup plan.
They
pulled up to her childhood home, a two-story brick Colonial on the main street
of Madison, Tennessee. Oaks had been planted down a middle island like a line
of soldiers at attention. They had grown to shade both sides of the street. It
was picturesque and cast the imagination back to a time when ladies lounged on
porches with their iced tea and gossiped with their neighbors to escape the
heat of summer. Air-conditioning had altered that way of life.
At
one time, as a kid, she’d known every family up and down the street well enough
to knock on their door for help or run through their backyard in epic games of
tag. Now, though, the houses were being bought up by people who used Madison to
escape the bustle of an expanding Nashville. They built pools in the backyards
and fences and weren’t outside except to walk their trendy dogs.
The
march of progress through Madison added to her melancholy sadness. There was a
reason not being able to go home again was a recurring theme in books and
songs.
“We
love you, Greer. You know that, don’t you?” Her mother’s voice was tight with
emotion, but she didn’t turn around, thank goodness.
Her
mother never cried and if Greer witnessed tears, she would burst into sobs
herself and embarrass everyone.
“I
know. Thanks for everything. I’m going to do better. Be better.” It seemed a
wholly inadequate promise she wasn’t even sure she could keep, but it was all
she could manage. She ducked out of the car and skipped around to a side door
of the house that was always unlocked.
Her
room was both a haven and a mocking reminder of the state of her life. Posters
of album covers papered the wall behind her bed, the colors faded from the sun
and the edges curling with age.
In
high school, she’d gravitated toward indie folk artists and away from the commercially
driven country-music machine located a few miles south. Joan Baez was flanked
by Patty Griffin and Dolly Parton. Even though Dolly veered more country than
Greer, no one could deny the legend’s songwriting chops. The guitar Greer had
hocked for rent money had borne Dolly’s signature like a talisman. Sometimes
Greer ached for her guitar like a missing limb.
The
flashing glimpse of a woman in a pale pink suit stopped her in the middle of
the floor. She turned to face the full-length mirror glued to the back of the
closet door. God, it was like glimpsing her mom through a time warp.
Greer
touched the delicate pearls that had been passed down to her on her eighteenth
birthday. They were old-fashioned and traditional and stereotypical of a
Southern “good girl.” Not her style. She’d left them in her dresser drawer when
she’d left home the day after high school graduation.
A
tug of recognition of the women who had come before her had her clutching the
strand in her hand as if something lost were now found. Was it her
circumstances or her age growing her nostalgia like a tree setting roots?
She
turned around to break the connection with the stranger in the mirror, stripped
off the pink suit, and pulled on jeans and a cotton oxford. Her mother would
appreciate seeing her in something besides the frayed shorts and grungy concert
T-shirts she’d lounged around in the last week. She reached behind her neck for
the clasp of the necklace, but her hands stilled, then dropped to her sides,
leaving the pearls in place.
She
stepped out of her room and was enveloped in silence. Her father had returned
to his insurance office and her mother must have set off for her hospital
visit. The house took on an expectant quality, as if waiting for its true
owners to return. She was no longer a fundamental part of this world. Not
unwelcome, perhaps, but a loose cog in her parents’ lives.
She
tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen and made herself a ham sandwich. May was too
early for fresh tomatoes, but in another month or two her mother’s garden would
make tomato sandwiches an everyday treat.
Craving
an escape, Greer grabbed a book and settled in her favorite window seat. The
rest of the afternoon passed in the same expectant silence. The chime of the
doorbell made her start and drop her book. If she pretended no one was home,
maybe whoever was on the front porch would go away. The last thing she wanted
was to face one of Madison’s gossips masquerading as a do-gooder.
The
creak of the door opening had her bolting to her feet.
“Greer?
I know you’re home. Are you decent?” Her uncle Bill’s booming voice echoed in
the two-story foyer.
She
propped her shoulder in the doorway of the sunroom. “Letting yourself in
people’s houses is a good way of getting shot around here.”
“While
your mama would have liked to have shot me during the divorce with her sister,
I hope we’ve made our peace.” He closed the door behind him and Greer did what
she’d wanted to do in the courtroom—she threw herself at him for a hug.
He
lifted her off her feet and spun her once around. Her laugh hit her ears like a
foreign language. It had been too long since she’d laughed from a place of
happiness.
“You
could have just come out to the house. You didn’t have to get arrested to see
me.” Bill let her go, and she led him into the sunroom.
“Do
you want something to drink?” Greer asked, already turning for the kitchen and
the fresh brewed pitcher of sweet iced tea.
“No,
thanks. Mary has fried chicken ready to go in the pan, so I can’t stay long.”
Bill
had divorced her aunt Tonya more than a decade earlier and married the choir
director of the biggest black church in town. A scandal had ensued not because
he’d married a black woman, but because he, a long-standing deacon in the
Church of Christ, had converted to a heathen Methodist.
“How
is Mary?”
“Always
singing.” He shook his head, an indulgent smile on his face, as they settled
into their seats.
His
comment sprinkled salt on an open wound. She’d begged off going to church with
her parents because of the questions she was sure to face and the hymns she
couldn’t bring herself to sing. Some of her earlier happiness at seeing him
leaked out. “Good for her.”
“I
came to make sure you weren’t mad at me.”
“Why
would I be mad?”
“I
got the impression you expected me to dismiss the charges.” His smile turned
into a wince.
“I
wouldn’t have been upset if you had, but I get it. I was an idiot and deserve
punishment.” She picked at the fringe on a decades-old needlepoint pillow and
cast him a pleading glance. “I’d rather pick up trash, though, if it’s all the
same to you.”
“It’s
not the same to me.” He crossed his long legs and tapped a finger on the cherry
armrest of the antique chair that looked ready to surrender at any moment to
his bulk. “Do you remember Amelia Shelton?”
“Mary’s
daughter? She was a couple of years ahead of me in school. We didn’t hang out
or anything, but she seemed nice.” Greer couldn’t remember the last time she’d
seen Amelia. Greer’s side of the family had skipped Bill and Mary’s small
wedding ceremony; the acrimony between him and her aunt Tonya hadn’t faded at
that point.
“Amelia
is the founder and director of the Music Tree Foundation and is desperate for
qualified volunteers. You’ve been playing and singing and writing music since
you were knee high. It was meant to be.”
“It’s
not meant to be. I’ve got to get a real job.”
Her
uncle made a scoffing sound. “You’re too much like my Mary. You could never
leave music behind.”
“Music
dumped me on the side of the road, gave me the finger, and peeled out.” Greer
shook her head and touched the string of pearls, her gaze on his polished black
dress shoes. “I’m a mess, Uncle Bill. I have nothing to offer. In fact, I’ll
probably make things worse for whatever poor soul I get paired with.”
She
expected him to argue, but he seemed to be weighing the truth in her words like
the scales of justice. His shrug wasn’t in the least reassuring. “Amelia has
done something really special with her foundation. It might do you a world of
good to focus on someone besides yourself.”
“Dang,
that’s harsh.”
He
patted her knee. “I’ve seen all kinds come through my courtroom. The ones who
turn it around are the ones who quit feeling sorry for themselves.”
“But—”
“But
nothing. Beau is an asshole. Not the first or the last you’re likely to
encounter. Don’t you deserve better than him?”
“Yes?”
She wished she’d been able to put more conviction into the word.
Beau
was successful, nice-looking—even though a bald spot was conquering his hair
day by day—and respected in their town. They’d known each other since high
school, but had only started dating in the last year.
He
was solid and steady and comfortable. Three things lacking from her life.
Catching him cheating with the president of the Junior League had been another
seismic shift in her world, leaving her unsure and off balance.
“If
you can’t believe in yourself yet, then believe me. You are talented, Greer,
and you have the ability to help people find their voice.” He slipped a card
out of his wallet. When she didn’t reach for it, he waved it in her face until
she took it.
A
tree styled with musical symbols of all different colors decorated one side of
the card. She ran her thumb over the raised black ink of Amelia’s name and an
address on the outskirts of Nashville. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Not
if you want to stay in my—and the court’s—good graces. She’s expecting you
tomorrow at three.”
“No
rest for the wicked, huh?” Her smile was born of sarcasm.
Bill
rose and ruffled her hair like he had when she was little. “Not wicked. Lost.”
Greer
walked him out, brushed a kiss on his cheek, and murmured her thanks. She
leaned on the porch rail and waved until he disappeared down the street.
I
once was lost, and now I’m found. She’d sung “Amazing Grace” so many times that
the lyrics had ceased to have an impact. But, standing on her childhood front
porch, having come full circle, a shiver went down her spine, and goose bumps
broke over her arms despite the heat that wavered over the pavement like a
mirage. Her granny would have said that someone had walked over her grave.
Maybe so. Or maybe change was a-coming whether she wanted to face up to it or
not.
Copyright © 2020 by Laura Trentham
About
the Author:
I
was born and raised in a small town in Northwest Tennessee. Although, I loved
English and reading in high school, I was convinced an English degree equated
to starvation! So, I chose the next most logical major - Chemical Engineering-
and worked in a hard hat and steel toed boots for several years. Now I live in
South Carolina with my husband and two children. In between school and homework
and soccer practices, I love to get lost in another world, whether it's Regency
England or small town Alabama.
My first two Falcon Football books received TOP PICKS from RT Book Reviews and a STARRED review from Library Journal. KISS ME THAT WAY, Cottonbloom Book 1, won the Stiletto Contest and was a finalist for the National Readers Choice Award. THEN HE KISSED ME, Cottonbloom Book 2, was named an Amazon Best Romance of 2016 and was a finalist of the National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award. TILL I KISSED YOU Book 3, is a finalist for the Maggie Award. And, LEAVE THE NIGHT ON Book 4, was named an iBooks Best Book of August and was featured on NPR! WHEN THE STARS COME OUT was named a Best Romance of February by Amazon!
Writing stuff...
1. An Everyday Hero, Book 2 in the Heart of a Hero series is finished and has a cover! Check it out HERE or on the home page. It's may be my favorite book I've written. (Until I write my new favorite:) It releases Feb 4th, 2020!!
2. A HIGHLANDER IN A PICKUP, Book 2 in the Highland, Georgia series is finished. It release Feb 25th, 2020!! (February is going to be a great month!!) I'm working on the last book in the series, A HIGHLANDER IS COMING TO TOWN!
3. A HIGHLANDER WALKS INTO A BAR, Book 1 in the Highland, Georgia series is out!! This is a light-hearted romantic comedy. Perfect for relaxing on the beach or if you need a little pick-me-up. It was named by Amazon as a Best Romance of August!
4. In October 2019, I'll be part of a Historical Christmas anthology, ONCE UPON A CHRISTMAS WEDDING! I've written a novella set in the Spies and Lovers world called A WICKED WEDDING that will be featured. Sometimes in 2020, I'll be releasing it as a standalone novella.
5. Still in the works is the next Regency in the Spies and Lovers series, A SINFUL SURRENDER and A DARING DECEPTION! Basically, I need a writing clone...
I would love to hear from you... Happy Reading!!
Connect with Laura:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/LauraTrentham
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