Contents ( 66)
- Cover
- Books by Valerie Fraser Luesse
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Contents
- Map of Florida
- one
- two
- three
- four
- five
- six
- seven
- eight
- nine
- ten
- eleven
- twelve
- thirteen
- fourteen
- fifteen
- sixteen
- seventeen
- eighteen
- nineteen
- twenty
- twenty-one
- twenty-two
- twenty-three
- twenty-four
- twenty-five
- twenty-six
- twenty-seven
- twenty-eight
- twenty-nine
- thirty
- thirty-one
- thirty-two
- thirty-three
- thirty-four
- thirty-five
- thirty-six
- thirty-seven
- thirty-eight
- thirty-nine
- forty
- forty-one
- forty-two
- forty-three
- forty-four
- forty-five
- forty-six
- forty-seven
- forty-eight
- forty-nine
- fifty
- fifty-one
- Epilogue
- Keep Reading for a Preview of Valerie Luesse’s Next Book!
- Prologue
- one
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Ads
- Back Cover
“What a fat head.”
“Couldn’a said it better myself.”
“So what did Daddy have to do with it?”
The chief rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes. “If I’m rememberin’ right, one o’ the boys finally got a belly full o’ Julian and told your daddy. Marshall kicked his brother outta the game and told us nobody had to worry about their parents’ jobs. We asked him if he wanted to play, and as it turns out, he was a fine ballplayer—mighty good sport too.”
“I’m not sure that story makes me feel any better, Chief. Knowing Uncle Julian, he’s prob’ly still mad about it. Just gives him one more reason to hate Daddy.”
“True. But here’s the thing I learned about Marshall back then. Some people are just selfish and think the rules don’t apply to them. That’d be your Uncle Julian. Others are law-abidin’ because they don’t want to get into trouble or have their neighbors think ill of ’em. That’s most everybody else. And then there’s a handful like your daddy—people with a strong sense o’ justice. They’ll do what they think is right and fair even when the law says they don’t have to—even when the law says they’re not s’posed to. And even when it means a sacrifice on their part. Ain’t many like that, Peyton.”
“No, sir. I guess not.” Peyton ran his finger back and forth across the dusty dashboard of the laundry truck, carefully considering his next question. “Chief . . . do you . . . do you know anything about Daddy’s time in the service—what happened, I mean?”
“If you’re askin’ do I know what drove him into that bottle, no I don’t, Peyton. If I did, I’d tell you. What I do know is this: Marshall saw some o’ the worst fightin’ in the Pacific. And from what the newspapers say, once the Army and the Marines finally took that bloody island, it turned out we didn’t even need it.”
“You mean they did all that for nothing?”
“Pretty much. You think about that for a second—months o’ killin’ and tryin’ to stay alive and witnessin’ horrors you can’t even imagine, only to find out your life—all them lives—were gambled for no more than an x’d-off spot on some general’s map. Knowin’ how your daddy’s turned, that’d be a mighty bitter pill to swallow.”
The pavement sliced through cotton fields and onion fields and one sleepy rural town after another until the sun started its descent, painting the sky with shades of reddish-orange that mirrored the Georgia clay down below.
“You ever hear about Daddy riding his bike from that camp on the Okefenokee down to Key West?” Peyton asked.
“I did,” the chief said. “Made him a kinda hero among the teenagers in town—’specially the girls. At first, I wondered why he never paid ’em no mind, but then word got around that he had a girl down in Florida. Now and again, I’d see him starin’ at a picture o’ Kate he kept taped inside his locker.”