Blessings Of Mossy Creek

Tippens

Praise for the Mossy Creek Hometown Series

Delightful.

—Georgia Former First Lady Marie Barnes

Mitford meets Mayberry in the first book of this innovative and warmhearted new series from BelleBooks.

—The Cleveland Daily Banner, Cleveland, Tennessee

MOSSY CREEK is as much fun as a cousin reunion; like sipping ice cold lemonade on a hot summer’s afternoon. Hire me a moving van, it’s the kind of town where everyone wishes they could live.

—Debbie Macomber, NYT bestselling author

A fast, funny, and folksy read. Enjoy!

—Lois Battle, acclaimed author of Storyville,

Bed and Breakfast, and

The Florabama Ladies Sewing Club And Auxiliary

SUMMER IN MOSSY CREEK takes you to a land that time has not forgotten, but has embraced.

—Jackie K Cooper, WMAC-AM, Macon, Georgia

Colorfully and cleverly portrayed. A wholesome story.

—Harriet Klausner, Amazon.com’s top reviewer

The characters and kinships of MOSSY CREEK are quirky, hilarious and all too human. This story reads like a delicious, meringue-covered slice of home. I couldn’t get enough.

—Pamela Morsi, USA Today bestselling author

I want to live in Mossy Creek.

—Astrid Kinn, Romance Reviews Today

These southern belle authors have done it again, even better this time.

—Bob Spear, Heartland Reviews

The stories that make up the Mossy Creek anthologies should be savored—they make readers hunger for more.

—Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times Magazine

Blessings of Mossy Creek

by

Sandra Chastain

Virginia Ellis,

Debra Dixon

Martha Shields

with

Susan Goggins

Lillian Richey

Gayle Trent,

Rita Herron

Karen White

Berta Platas,

Martha Kirkland

Chloe Mitchell

and

Missy Tippens

BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

BelleBooks

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935661-13-9

Print ISBN: 978-0-9673035-5-0

Copyright © 2004 by BellBooks, Inc.

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

A mass market edition of this book was published by BelleBooks, Inc. in 2004

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design: Martha Crockett

Interior design: Hank Smith

Cover art credits:

Cover photo © EyeMark | fotolia.com

:Embc:01:

Odd Places & Beautiful Spaces

A Guide to the Towns & Attractions of the South Mossy Creek, Georgia

Don’t miss this quirky, historic Southern village on your drive through the Appalachian mountains! Located in a breathtaking valley two hours north of Atlanta, the town (1,700 residents, established 1839) is completely encircled by its lovely namesake creek. Picturesque bridges span the creek around the turn-of-the-century town square like charms on a bracelet. Be sure to arrive via the scenic route along South Bigelow Road, the main two-lane from Bigelow, Mossy Creek’s big-sister city, hometown of Georgia governor Ham Bigelow. (Don’t be surprised if you overhear Creekites in heated debate about Ham, who’s the nephew of longtime Mossy Creek mayor Ida Walker.) You’ll know when you reach the Mossy Creek town limits—just look for the charming, whitewashed grain silo by the road at Mayor Walker’s farm. Painted with the town’s pioneer motto—Ain’t goin’ nowhere, and don’t want to—the silo makes a great photo opportunity, and the motto perfectly sums up the stubborn (but not unfriendly) free spirits you’ll find everywhere in what the chamber of commerce calls Greater Mossy Creek, which includes the outlying mountain communities of Bailey Mill, Over, Yonder, and Chinaberry.

Lodging, Dining, And Attractions: Shop and eat to your heart’s delight around the town’s shady square. Don’t miss Mama’s All You Can Eat Café, Beechum’s Bakery (be sure to say hello to Bob, the flying Chihuahua), The Naked Bean coffee shop, O’Day’s Pub, the Bubba Rice Diner, Hamilton’s Department Store (featuring the origami napkin work of local beauty queen Josie McClure), Hamilton House Inn, the I Probably Got It store, Moonheart’s Natural Living, and Mossy Creek Books And What-Nots. Drop by town hall for a look at the notorious Ten-Cent Gypsy (a carnival booth at the heart of a dramatic Creekite mystery) and stop by the town jail for an update on local shenanigans courtesy of Officer Sandy Crane, who calls herself the gal in front of the man behind the badge, Mossy Creek Police Chief Amos Royden (recently featured in Georgia Today Magazine as the sexiest bachelor police chief in the state). And don’t forget to pop into the newspaper offices of the Mossy Creek Gazette, where you can get the latest event news from Katie Bell, local gossip columnist extraordinaire.

As Katie Bell likes to say, In Mossy Creek, I can’t make up better stories than the truth.

A Who’s Who of Mossy Creek

Ida Hamilton Walker—Mayor. Devoted to her town. Menopausal. Gorgeous. Trouble.

Amos Royden—Ida’s much-younger police chief. Trying hard not to be irresistible.

Katie Bell—Gossip columnist and town sleuth. Watch out!

Sue Ora Salter Bigelow—Newspaper publisher. Fighting the Salter romance curse.

Jasmine Beleau—Fashion consultant. Her secret past is a shocker.

Josie McClure—Failed beauty queen. Budding interior designer. Talent: origami napkin folding.

Harry Rutherford—Josie’s mountain man and fiance. PhD and local version of Bigfoot.

Hamilton Bigelow—Governor of Georgia. Ida’s nephew. A typical politician. ’Nuff said?

Win Allen—aka Chef Bubba Rice—The Emeril of Mossy Creek.

Ingrid Beechum—Baker. Doting surrogate grandma. Owns Bob, the famous flying Chihuahua.

Hank and Casey Blackshear—Run the veterinary clinic. Most inspirational local love story.

Sandy Crane—Amos’s scrappy dispatcher. If Dolly Parton and Barney Fife had a daughter . . .

Ed Brady—Farmer. Santa. The toughest, sweetest old man in town.

Rainey Cecil—Owns Goldilocks Hair, Nail and Tanning Salon. Bringing big hair to a whole new generation.

Michael Conners—Sexy Chicago Yankee whose Irish pub lures dart-tourney sharks.

Tag Garner—Ex pro-footballer turned sculptor. Good natured when bitten by old ladies.

Maggie Hart—Herbalist. Tag’s main squeeze. Daughter of old lady who bit him.

Millicent Hart—See above. Town kleptomaniac. Sorry she bit Tag. Sort of.

Del Jackson—Hunky retired lieutenant colonel. Owns Ida’s heart. For now. See Amos.

Bert Lyman—The voice of Mossy Creek. Owner, manager, DJ of WMOS Radio.

Opal Suggs—Retired teacher who adopts needy kids. Talks to her sisters’ ghosts who foretell NASCAR winners.

Dwight Truman—Chamber president. Insurance tycoon. Ida’s nemesis, along with Ham Bigelow. Weasel.

Swee Purla—Evil interior design maven. Makes even Martha Stewart look wimpy.

The Mossy Creek Gazette

215 Main Street * Mossy Creek, Georgia

From the Desk of Katie Bell, Business Manager

Lady Victoria Salter Stanhope

The Cliffs, Seaward Road

St. Ives, Cornwall TR37PJ

United Kingdom

Hey, Vick!

Hope things are good along the white cliffs of Dover. Over here, across the ocean, we’re finally done with summer and resting up before the holidays. Some of the local churches have come to me with an idea to publish inspirational stories in the Gazette each week -- you know, to get us all in the spirit of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. When it comes to inspiration, Creekites are eager to share. I’ll send you some of my columns and the stories people tell me. I plan to publish them in the paper under the title Blessings Of Mossy Creek. That sounds so much better than More Juicy Gossip in Mossy Creek, doesn’t it? As usual, I expect to do some snooping and report more than people intend to admit. We have a lot of little dramas going on around here this fall. I’m not leaving them out of the mix.

You’ll like the story I’m including with this note. I should have mentioned it over the summer -- it took place back in June -- but there was so much going on that I just never got around to telling you. I’m also including the article I ran in my Bell Ringer column afterwards. I know you love wedding stories, so enjoy!

Blessings and good gossip to you and yours,

Katie

P.S. I can’t believe I almost forgot to tell you! I’ve been nominated for a newspaper award! I’m off to New York! Watch out, Big Apple!

Chapter 1

In Mossy Creek, a wedding is a community affair.

Harry’s Unexpected Blessing

COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS!

Reverend Hollingsworth’s benediction was bellowed more than said, and I found myself reeling at the impact. He’d caught me by surprise again. The small, mild-mannered preacher—small, at least, when compared to my six-foot-eight-inch, two-hundred-seventy-pound frame—had another personality when he climbed into the pulpit. Reverend Hollingsworth got the Spirit, as Josie’s mother, LuLynn McClure, put it, but not when he talked about the damnation side of religion. No, when he spoke about the fires of hell, Reverend Hollingsworth’s countenance turned dark and woeful. Only when he spoke on the joys of God’s love did excitement overwhelm him. His voice shook with emotion, and he pounded his fist and Bible on the pulpit. Then he climbed down and greeted everyone at the front door with a smile and voice as soft as an angel.

He was an interesting dichotomy.

I’d never taken much stock in organized religion. The God of my science resided in the flora and fauna of the North Georgia mountains where I did my research. But ever since Josie said yes to my proposal of marriage, she’d been coaxing me to the hundred-year-old oak pews of the Mossy Creek Presbyterian Church. And I have to say that, so far, I didn’t mind all that much. The experience had proven at worst a little dull, but sometimes most entertaining.

"How many blessings do you have?"

The Reverend pointed his bony finger directly at me, it seemed, though I was halfway back and on the very edge of the sanctuary, right under the stained glass window depicting the Apostle John. I knew better than to think I’d been singled out, of course, but for some reason that phrase bored into my consciousness like a black beetle bores into the bark of a red-gum.

Blessings? Me?

There was a time in my life when I would’ve laughed in anyone’s face who talked to me about blessings. A house fire six years ago left me half broken and badly burned across my chest and face. I spent an excruciating year in several hospitals specializing in burn trauma and skin grafts, then spent three even more painful years watching people’s reactions to my monster face. Two years ago I built a cabin on Mount Colchik, north of Mossy Creek, and like the monster I was, retreated to my den to conduct my research. My work was the only blessing I had in those dark days. My research was not only conducive to my hiding from the world, it required it.

My Ph.D. in environmental biology had earned me a grant from the Environmental Protection Agency to study the effect of acid rain on the indigenous hardwood trees of the Appalachian Mountains. So I lived like a hermit for two years, sending down to the world the data I collected.

Though I lived high above the world, I existed far below it . . . in a kind of hell. I was at the lowest point in my life, and felt singularly unblessed.

Until sunshine walked onto my mountain.

Remembering that day, I slid my arm along the back of the pew, easing Josie against me. She gave me a serenely loving smile and shifted a little closer. A fresh wave of her subtle scent caught me. Mountain laurel. She’d extracted the oil herself from the small white flower that blooms in the early spring, a technique she’d learned from some long-ago Martha Stewart show.

I played idly with a strand of her chestnut brown hair that had escaped the tortoiseshell clip trying to confine it. Thick and straight, Josie’s hair reached halfway down her back. She’d threatened to shorten it last summer to a more professional cut to go with her new decorating career, but kept it long when I asked her to. LuLynn called Josie’s hair her one beauty, but Josie’s mother was wrong. Josie’s beauty went deeper than hair or skin. She glowed with beauty that came from her soul.

My wife-to-be was as natural, as unique and as hardy as the mountain laurel that grew on the rocky slopes that had surrounded her all of her life. I knew how I’d lived without her . . . in darkness. And I was certain I never wanted to be without her light again.

Blessings? Josie was Blessing Incarnate . . . the only blessing that mattered.

I held her small hand as we stood for the invitation song. After the final amen, the congregation meandered toward the door, everyone stopping to talk to everyone else. Except me, of course. Oh, a few of the men shook my hand and mumbled things like, Nice to see you. But I was a newcomer to Mossy Creek and though I’d been accepted by most of the townspeople, it was a surface acceptance. To be fair, I still had my research to conduct, so I wasn’t in town all that much. To use one of Josie’s decorating metaphors, I wasn’t a pleat in the fabric of the town. I was more like an oddly colored button that hadn’t been sewn on yet. Since I still caught a few what-a-freak stares now and then, I knew the general citizenry hadn’t quite decided if I matched well enough to go to the trouble of threading the needle.

It didn’t matter to me, of course, except that it mattered to Josie. Having grown up here, she was woven into the fabric that was Mossy Creek. Though she’d only realized that when she became recognized for her decorating skills, which were now in great demand. That made her happy, so I was happy to stand behind her as she chatted her way out of the church.

Suddenly a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I glanced around to find Mac Campbell, one of Mossy Creek’s best-known lawyers. At six-foot-four, he was also one of the few men in town who came remotely close to matching me in size, with the possible exception of the police chief, Amos Royden, who reached the six-four mark in cowboy boots. Both men could look me in the eye without straining their necks too badly. Mac also had as much education as I did, and I enjoyed talking with him. So I turned with genuine pleasure.

As I did, he grabbed my hand and shook firmly. How’d the wind treat you, Harry?

I squeezed his hand in return. A spring storm had blown through several weeks before with straight-line winds of hurricane strength. Mossy Creek hadn’t sustained much damage, nestled as it was in a valley, but the wind felled some of the oldest and mightiest trees all over the surrounding mountains, especially toward the top. I’d spent a week clearing a path to my cabin on Mount Colchik, then another cleaning debris off of it and from around it. This was the first time I’d been to town since.

Lady Luck was sitting on top of my cabin, I said. A hemlock and an elm were both heading toward my roof, but it looked like they canceled each other out. When I got there, their top branches were enmeshed, holding each other up. I folded my fingers together and spread my elbows over Josie’s head to demonstrate.

She glanced up, then turned from her conversation with Jayne Reynolds, visiting this morning from the Mt. Gilead Methodist Church. Jayne smiled at me, but nestled in her arms, her baby boy, Matthew, stared at me as if he might cry. Josie nodded. You should’ve been there, Mac. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Well, I’ll be . . . Mac rubbed his chin. You start cutting on one, they’d both come crashing on your roof. How’d you get them down?

I threw a rope around one, then Josie and I pulled them down toward the back.

Both at the same time . . . Mac nodded. Of course. It was the only way. You should’ve called. I could’ve helped.

Mac, that’s so sweet! Josie peered up at me, one eyebrow raised. I told you to call someone.

Mac’s words had taken me aback, but I shrugged them away. Easy to make promises after the fact. "Someone is rather vague, Josie. Then, deciding to show her just how much his promises were worth, I turned to Mac. I’m going to be cutting them up for firewood and lumber. You can help me with that."

Hey! I can help, too.

The voice came from below, and we all glanced down to find Clay Atwood, the boy whom Mac and his wife, Patty, were in the process of adopting. At nine he was small for his age. From what I’d heard of his early years, that was probably from not having an adequate diet. From what I’d seen since Patty and Mac had taken him in, Clay had a good heart despite the abusive father Chief Royden had taken him away from.

Josie spoke first. Of course you can help, Clay. She ruffled his brown hair. But you have to leave Dog at home, I’m afraid.

Mac and Patty had inherited a mutt named Dog along with Clay. The boy raised disbelieving eyes to his future father. But Dog could—

Josie’s right, Mac placed large hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. Dog has to stay home with Maddie and Butler. They’re his canine buddies.

It’s not that we don’t love Dog. Josie sat back down on the pew so she was at Clay’s level. But he might wander off to go exploring, and he’d probably get lost.

And eaten by a bear, I thought, but held my tongue. I thought children should grow up aware of the dangers of the mountains, but Josie had gently scolded me more than once for forcing reality on children. I had to admit I tended to go into far more graphic, scientific explanations of those dangers than a child could comprehend and, as Josie told me, I had to practice restraint for our own future children.

The possibility of me fathering a little girl just like her mother made me smile. More blessings to come.

Awwright, Clay agreed reluctantly, making me realize that daydreams had caused me to miss more explanations of why his dog couldn’t help clear the trees. Not that I would need to remember the exchange. It wasn’t as if Clay and his father would actually be helping me. After all, Mac was just making polite conversation.

Josie! LuLynn called from the last pew in the church. Remember I’ve got a hen in the oven.

All right, Mama. We’re coming. Josie gave Clay a brief kiss, then rose to shake Mac’s hand. We appreciate your offer to help, Mac. She glanced around him. Where’s Patty?

He pointed down toward the church basement. She’s at a meeting to plan this summer’s Vacation Bible School.

Josie nodded, looking around. Jayne’s disappeared. She must’ve taken Matthew outside. Tell Patty hello. Y’all are coming to the wedding, aren’t you?

Are you kidding? It’s the event of the year.

Josie waved goodbye as she headed for her mother. Hope you’re not allergic to roses, Mac!

Once Josie was out of earshot, Mac glanced at me. I shrugged. Josie’s second favorite flower, since laurel finishes blooming too soon for a June wedding. LuLynn had Mrs. Townsend order twenty dozen white roses from Atlanta.

Mac paused. Eugenia Townsend? LuLynn ordered flowers from Mossy Creek Flowers and Gifts?

I didn’t like the amazed look on his face. Josie insisted on buying as much as possible of all that wedding paraphernalia in Mossy Creek. Something wrong with Eugenia at Mossy Creek Flowers and Gifts?

No, no, Mac said quickly. I’m sure Eugenia’s fine . . . now. Haven’t heard her mention any problems in a long time. It happened over twenty years ago, after all.

What happened over—

Harold! LuLynn called. She always insisted on using my formal Christian name. "Do you like dried-out chicken?"

Dried-out chicken was less important to me than the possibility that something might occur to make Josie’s wedding day less than perfect. Mac, what happened over twenty years ago?

Harold!!!

Nothing that amounts to a hen’s feather, Mac assured me. Eugenia wouldn’t deliberately sabotage an order as lucrative as this one must be. Besides the money, the town would never forgive her. No. Everything’s fine. I’m sure.

I didn’t like the word sabotage. Mac—

Harold, we’re leaving. LuLynn crossed her arms over her chest. Josie had already escaped outside. "Do you want to walk the five miles to Bailey Mill?"

Despite her pretensions and predilection toward snobbery, I liked my soon-to-be mother-in-law. I didn’t want to make her mad at me six days before I was going to marry her daughter.

I backed toward the church door, but kept my gaze locked into Mac’s. About Eugenia Townsend. You’re sure?

Mac nodded and waved me on. The worst Eugenia would do is overcharge LuLynn, but that will only make LuLynn think she’s getting the best.

Since that was true, I allowed myself to be mollified. I’d heard from more than one source that nobody in town, except Katie Bell, the official queen of gossip, knew more than Mac about Creekites’ business. Not that he was a busybody. He represented nearly all of them in legal matters.

Call me after your honeymoon about cutting up those trees, Mac said. I’m serious.

I waved an acknowledgement—it’s always better not to let people know you expect the least of them—and walked out of the church. I blinked as I hit spring sunshine and felt my hand grabbed in a firm shake.

By now I knew the steel of that grip. Reverend Hollingsworth. Enjoyed the sermon.

Why, thank you, Dr. Rutherford. He always seemed immensely pleased to be complimented, making you feel as if you were special because you’re the only one who’d noticed. I enjoyed writing that one.

And delivering it, I couldn’t help adding.

He smiled softly. Yes. I do love a good, rousing topic.

Harold!

"I’m coming, LuLynn!" I knew she didn’t like me calling her by her first name in public, especially at church, but since she was thirty-eight—only five years older than me—I couldn’t bring myself to call her Mother. I nodded to the Reverend. See you at the rehearsal on Friday.

Harold, where is Josie? LuLynn called. Isn’t she with you?

I thought she was out here with you.

I glanced toward the emptying parking lot, but didn’t spot my beloved. Scanning the churchyard, I finally caught a glimpse of her dark red dress under the spreading branches of a white oak that had been there as long as the church. She and Eleanor Abercrombie were bent over the roses growing on the picket fence that lined the bank of the east branch of Mossy Creek.

With a fond smile, I made my way over. Josie had grown up tending roses with her Grandma McClure. Since her grandmother was now deceased, Josie never lost an opportunity to milk advice from those with more experience. Eleanor was a charter member of the Mossy Creek Garden Club.

"Tsk, tsk. The older woman shook her head over a rose branch trying to reach the lowest limb of the oak. This isn’t the way to train a climbing rose. It’ll never get sun up there. She pulled at the thorny limb as I approached and coaxed it down along the fence. There, there. That’s it, sweetie. Join your sisters."

Josie helped by pulling it between two boards of the fence. Why aren’t there any blooms?

"The prom at Bigelow High last night, dearie. Teenagers cleaned out every rose on every unguarded bush in the county. I doubt there’s a single rose left in Mossy Creek or Bigelow. Mrs. Abercrombie winked as she straightened. ’Cept in private gardens like mine, of course."

Yours are too valuable to decorate a high school gymnasium. Josie smiled at me absently and sucked on a finger she’d obviously pricked.

Mrs. Abercrombie patted several branches on the climbing rosebush and tsked again. Look at these yellow leaves. These bushes need some work. Delia Mitchell’s been taking care of them for the church. She covets the Bigelow County Rose Trophy, but doesn’t want to do what it takes to win it. You can’t grow roses and sit on your duff all day.

No, ma’am. I know, Josie said.

Roses are like young’uns. Mrs. Abercrombie included me in her admonition as I took Josie’s hand and smoothed a drop of blood off her finger. You might as well learn the truth now, you both about to get hitched, and all. She nodded sagely. They’re like children . . . you got to tend them constantly, or they’ll go wild on you.

No need to worry about that, Mrs. Abercrombie, I said. Josie’s in her rose garden every day, rain or shine, cold snap or heat wave.

I was taught by one of the best, Josie insisted.

You were that, Mrs. Abercrombie agreed. Your Grandma Gladys McClure won the county fair’s rose contest eighteen years running, God rest her soul. Mrs. Abercrombie peered toward the parking lot. "And your mama’s about to have a conniption over in her Coupe DeVille. You’d best get."

Josie gave Mrs. Abercrombie a hug. I’ll try to make it over to your house sometime this week. I’d like to see your Silver Passions while they’re peaking. Then she turned to me and slipped her arm through mine as we walked toward LuLynn’s Cadillac. Mrs. Abercrombie always wins the rose competition in the Bigelow County Garden Contest, which is next Saturday afternoon, after the wedding. This year, she has a silver rose that’s—

Josie McClure, LuLynn yelled, you going to starve that husband of yours before you even get your apron strings tied around him?

Josie winced. She doesn’t mean that.

I squeezed her arm. I know. Don’t worry about it.

LuLynn was a dichotomy, too. A homecoming queen whose crowning moment had been snatched away from her over twenty years ago by the bizarre incident that burned down Mossy Creek High during halftime of the big game with Bigelow High, LuLynn helped manage her husband’s cattle farm but now was a die-hard fan of Martha Stewart, never caring that the home decorating guru’s crown was a bit tarnished. LuLynn had thrown herself into Josie’s wedding plans with a vengeance, determined that this wedding would be the envy of every mother of a marriageable-aged daughter in Bigelow County.

Josie was no pushover, though, and had definite ideas about how her wedding should be. So there’d been more than one argument between the bride and the mother-of-the-bride that would’ve brought down the rafters of any church. Since I’d never heard Josie raise her voice to another living creature, I dragged her up to my cabin on Mount Colchik every time she and her mother verged on new warfare.

But for the moment, peace reigned. Josie and LuLynn discussed Mrs. Abercrombie’s roses as Josie’s mostly-silent father, John McClure, drove us to the McClure farm in the Bailey Mill community. There we would feast on LuLynn’s roasted