Bless Her Heart Read online

  Praise for Sally Kilpatrick’s Previous Novels

  “Fans of Southern contemporary romance will be charmed.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Witty, warm, and as complex and heart-wrenching as only love and family can be.”

  —Heroes and Heartbreakers

  “Readers will both laugh and cry as Declan and Presley face loss, learn life lessons from ghosts, and realize life is much easier to handle with someone by your side.”

  —Booklist

  “Pleasantly engaging.”

  —Library Journal

  “In short, this one is pretty much as close to perfect as a reading experience can get.”

  —Nashville Book Worm

  “A cute story with just the right blend of romance, sadness, and humor. If you enjoy your books with quirky characters and lots of heart . . . you should give this one a try.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “Sweet, funny and charming . . . Absolutely lovely.”

  —Bookish Devices

  “Kilpatrick mixes loss and devastation with hope and a little bit of Southern charm. She will leave the reader laughing through tears. This is an incredible start from a promising storyteller.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Books by Sally Kilpatrick

  The Happy Hour Choir

  Bittersweet Creek

  Better Get to Livin’

  Bless Her Heart

  Orange Blossom Special (novella)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  bless her heart

  sally kilpatrick

  Kensington Books

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Sally Kilpatrick’s Previous Novels

  Books by Sally Kilpatrick

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  acknowledgments

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  Mrs. Morris’s Snickerdoodles

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Notes

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

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Sally Kilpatrick

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1074-1

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1074-6

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1073-4

  For Tanya, who has never once blessed my heart

  acknowledgments

  As always, thank you to my folks at Kensington: Editor Wendy McCurdy, copy editor Tracy Wilson, Paula, Lulu, my cover folks, and anyone else I may be missing. I love you guys and thank you for letting me be a part of the Kensington family.

  Elisabeth, you answer all of my silly questions about Baptists because I can’t remember all of my adventures with Julie and Polly. I gave John your and Colin’s last name because y’all are a few of my favorite Baptists. It’s a privilege to be your friend.

  Tina Whittle, I couldn’t have done the Tarot scene without you—thanks for your invaluable expertise. I regret to inform you that Julia kinda wants her own story, so I may be asking for more assistance in the future.

  These folks helped me on all sorts of hypothetical situations: Kim Knight (also my Spiritual Advisor), Clayton Matthews, Sonia Labovitz, La-Tessa Montgomery, Julie Cothren Hudson, and Vicki Stout. Thank you so, so much for sharing your expertise and, in some cases, some really personal stories.

  Shout-out to the Chamber Choir, my most dedicated, who answered questions, suggested recipes and names, and, in general, made the writing process a whole heckuva lot more fun.

  Thanks to Jenni and Anna for taking a gander at my first attempts of this novel. Immense gratitude to Tanya Michaels who read the whole damn thing and didn’t pull any punches when it came to making the story better. Finally, thanks to my mom—she reads all of my work and always makes it better.

  This is my fourth novel, and I am still petrified that I will forget to name someone in the acknowledgments. Just know that I appreciate you but suffer from a very scattered brain. Also, any errors you find are mine and mine alone. Feel free to bless my heart.

  Thanks to The Hobbit and Her Majesty for putting up with Mommy’s crazy job, especially those last few weeks when things get frantic. Ryan, I couldn’t do it without you. I love you, and I thank you for making life so awesome that I have to imagine all of the strife required for a proper conflict.

  chapter 1

  There were only three words in the English language that I hated with all of my being: bless, your, and heart—specifically in that order. One look through the glass door that led to Love Ministries, and I knew those words were winging my way. Miss Georgette wrestled with the door, pushing when she ought to pull. She came to the little brick building twice every week, but she still had trouble with that door. Today, the older lady wore a knit pantsuit with a cat appliqué on the front. Siamese cat earrings dangled from her ears.

  “Why, Posey. Are you still working as a receptionist?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Just as I had for the past five years.

  “Well.”

  Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say it.

  “Bless your heart.”

  My entire body relaxed. I’d braced myself for her words as one would brace for bullets when standing in front of a firing squad. She’d said them. It was done.

  “You know, I still say you would’ve made a right fine elementary teacher. I was so disappointed when you didn’t take a job after you graduated.”

  “I am sorry about that,” I said. Mainly sorry for myself, but sorry nonetheless.

  She continued speaking as if she hadn’t heard me. “You were one of my absolute best students when I taught elementary education at the college. I still have some of the games and projects that you made.”

  Miss Georgette reminded me of this every time she came through the doors. While flattered that she still had some of my school projects, I wished she wouldn’t remind me that my life hadn’t exactly gone as planned. At thirty-two years old, I was supposed to be almost ten years into a teaching career with at least two children. I had d) none of the above.

  “I heard from Lisa who heard from Jackie that Heather Mickens has been put on bed rest so they have a supply position
open in first grade. You should apply and see how you like it.”

  Here was a first: Miss Georgette actually pushing me in the direction of a teaching job instead of bemoaning the fact I didn’t have one. “Oh, I don’t know. I bet I’ve forgotten everything I once knew. The standards have probably changed, and—”

  “Pish-posh. First graders are the same as they ever were.” Miss Georgette waved away my concerns, and the Siamese cats hanging from her ears dangled in time to the motion. “You should apply for the job and at least see what happens. Ellery Elementary won’t find a more upstanding lady than you.”

  I looked down at my floral dress with the lace collar. I spent a lot of time cultivating my image as “upstanding” because everyone knew my mother had a bit of a past. Sure, I might dress like an extra on The Golden Girls now, but I was the daughter of the legendary hippie girl who ran away from home and came back pregnant. I was the baby she bore, a girl who’d never known a father. Never mind the fact I had nothing to do with my mother’s actions. They, of course, were all reasons to bless my heart.

  I could still hear the voices, the whispered snatches of conversation from the teachers and professors as I made my way through Ellery Elementary, then Yessum High and finally the local college, always doing my best to be invisible.

  Her mama makes her clothes out of hemp instead of getting them at the store.

  Well, bless her heart.

  No clue who her father is. Vonda over at the Health Department saw the birth certificate and said no father was listed.

  That’s awful. Bless her heart.

  Did you hear her mama’s got pregnant again? Still not married.

  Mmm-hmm. Bless her heart.

  Now she’s married that Chad Love. He has to be at least ten years older than she is.

  Oh, bless her heart.

  They’ve been married forever now and still no kids. Think something’s wrong with one of them?

  Probably her. Poor thing, bless her heart.

  Miss Georgette waved a beefy hand in front of my face. “Did you hear me, Posey?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I remembered some things I have to do.” I made a show of making notes on my planner then looked up. “What were you saying?”

  “I was saying you should apply for the supply position, and that I would be happy to put in a good word for you if you did.”

  “That’s really kind of you, Miss Georgette.”

  The tips of her ears and the tops of her cheeks turned pink. “It would be nothing. My pleasure, really.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.” Surprisingly, I did. Aside from the constant heart-blessing, Miss Georgette had always been very good to me.

  “Don’t you forget to turn in that application,” she admonished as she started down the hall toward her weekly Bible study.

  Unlikely that I would forget. Even more unlikely that I would turn in the application. Chad didn’t want me to work outside the home. When we first married, the plan was for me to stay home and be mother to our children. He promised me at least two even though I wanted four. God, however, had other plans. After ten years of trying to get pregnant, I had nothing to show for the effort. We’d been to a few doctors even though Chad wanted to leave everything to God’s will. The last doctor told me I would never conceive. I tried to mean it when I prayed “thy will be done,” but I couldn’t help but add a plea for motherhood. God had changed his mind once or twice, right?

  After the doctor’s pronouncement, I asked Chad about adoption. He said he didn’t feel comfortable having some stranger’s baby in his house. That hurt my heart. Then I asked about teaching again, but he always found a way to talk me out of it. Funny that I, the daughter of Ellery’s most notorious single mom, would allow a man to talk me out of anything, but we’d left the Baptist Church about two years into our marriage to form a ministry that relied on the principle of men being the head of their respective households. Wives, of course, were to be cherished in addition to being submissive. I had to admit it was quite freeing not to have to make any decisions.

  Even so, I chafed at having to wait for his blessing—or God’s—to do what I wanted to do.

  It can’t hurt to look for an application.

  I booted up my computer and searched for the Yessum County School System, the online application taunting me. Since I obviously wouldn’t be having babies any time soon, I could at least teach them. This receptionist job was supposed to have been temporary. Not enough people came through the door to merit my existence anyway. Sometimes I wondered how Chad kept the doors open, but, as head of the household, he handled all of the finances so I took it on faith that he had everything under control. Submission and obedience, as he was fond of reminding me, were more difficult than his position of authority and responsibility.

  Down the hall behind me Chad whistled as he approached. I quickly switched tabs to a document before he could see the application. He didn’t like for me to be on the Internet. He said he was afraid I’d stumble upon something impure. To his point, it was the Internet.

  “Posey, are all of my Bible study members here?” he asked, leaning over my desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “They’re all here,” I said.

  Still he leaned, studying me, so I took a moment to study him. My husband looked more handsome now than he had before: dark hair and brown eyes with crinkles at the edges. Sometimes I wondered how he had ended up with a plain girl like me, but he could talk almost anyone into anything, and I was no exception. He’d sold me on the American dream: nice house and two and a half kids, even joking that he didn’t know how we’d make that half. I suggested a dog instead, but he reminded me he was allergic.

  Then he’d sold me on being a submissive wife, pointing out that, without a father, my home life had been less than ideal. He was right about that. Granny and Mom had argued. Often they had no extra money to go around. Thanks to Mom’s less than disciplined behavior, I’d had my heart blessed more times than I could count. I couldn’t argue with him that she would’ve benefited from the discipline that seemingly eluded her until she’d had her third child.

  Chad was all about discipline. If I spent too much on groceries, then he took away some of my pin money to remind me to be more frugal. If I overindulged in sweets and my pants got too tight, he hid the cookies. If I got behind with clerical tasks or domestic chores, then he had me stay late an hour at work or had me get up an hour earlier on Saturday to make up for lost time. Sometimes I muttered under my breath at his “suggestions,” but I did have to admit that we stayed on budget, I stayed in my pants, and everything ran smoothly at home and at work. In that way, he’d given me the stability I’d always craved.

  At least he’d never actually raised his hand to me even though some of the ministers he communicated with did take the ideas of submissive wives and discipline quite literally.

  Well, there was that one time, but I’d made him understand there were two things I wouldn’t tolerate: infidelity and being hit. I’d given him one more chance on the second, but there were no extra chances on the first.

  “Posey, dear?”

  “Yes?”

  “You were daydreaming again,” he said as he chucked my chin. “Would you be a dear and go to the Calais Café to get us lunch today?” He slid his glasses back up his nose.

  “Of course,” I said, “Do we have enough money in the checking account, though?”

  “Always thinking, you,” he said as he reached for his wallet and took out a couple of twenties. “You know what I like. Be sure to bring back the change, though.”

  “I’ll have it by noon.”

  He kissed my cheek, then headed down the hall still whistling. How was it possible that he didn’t seem to age at all, but I couldn’t keep the ravages of time at bay? Today would be another day to skip dessert or anything fatty because my shapewear was cutting into me again. He had that dignified sprinkle of gray at his temple, but my dark brown hair threatened to go salt-a
nd-pepper any day now. He still wore the same pant size as when we got married, but my hips kept spreading.

  They looked like childbearing hips. Oh, the irony.

  While Chad talked to the old ladies down the hall about Revelation for the umpteenth dozenth time, I created a new email address and then filled out the application to be a supply teacher. It felt sneaky to do so, but Chad insisted that we share an email address, and I wasn’t ready to tell him yet. It was worth whatever lecture he might give me to be able to surprise him with something I’d done for the good of our family.

  As penance, I determined I would get him dessert even though I wouldn’t be having any. Once at the Calais Café, I knew he wanted the chicken potpie and a slice of pecan pie. Finding something healthy for myself would be more difficult. After looking over the menu, I settled on a chicken Caesar salad with light Italian dressing on the side. They had a pristine chocolate pie in the safe, uncut with mile-high meringue that had browned just so. My mouth watered, but I passed.

  Once I returned I thought we might lunch together, but Chad told me he needed to take a working lunch. “Oh, you got me pie, too! How thoughtful of you.”

  This earned me a kiss on the lips and a covert pinch on the butt once he was sure no one was looking. Then he took his lunch to the back, and I sat down at my lonely reception desk to convince myself that I did, indeed, like chicken Caesar salad.

  My self wasn’t having it that day.

  When Amanda Kildare appeared on the other side of the door, teary-eyed and looking both ways, I wasn’t sad about pushing the salad to the side. Amanda and I had gone to school together, but we hadn’t moved in the same circles. She had been popular. Me? Not so much. Even so, she’d started coming to me for advice when she and her husband jumped ship from First Baptist to attend Love Ministries. I didn’t like giving advice, but Chad had told me to say a quick prayer and offer up what words I could because he wasn’t an expert on those things women discussed.