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  Books by Sally Kilpatrick

  The Happy Hour Choir

  Bittersweet Creek

  Better Get to Livin’

  (coming soon!)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Bittersweet Creek

  Sally Kilpatrick

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Sally Kilpatrick

  Title Page

  Dedication

  THE SATTERFIELDS

  Julian

  Romy

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  Acknowledgments

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  Copyright Page

  Notes

  To Carol Jane and James Harvey,

  the best parents a girl could ask for

  and

  To my first critique partner, Janette—thanks for

  loving this story almost as much as I love you

  THE SATTERFIELDS

  Benjamin Satterfield (1825–1874)

  1848—Married Sarah (1830–1861)

  Louisa (1860–1917)

  1863—Married Alma (1840–1923)

  Benjamin, Jr. (1864–1932)

  Sallie (1866–1966)

  Otis (1867–1874)

  Ruth (1870–1961)

  John Thomas (1871–1953)

  Benjamin Satterfield, Jr (1864–1932)

  1886—Married Rose (1870–1962)

  Daisy (1886–1899)

  Benjamin III (1888–1944)

  Homer (1892–1940)

  Wisteria (1893–1961)

  Floyd (1894–1918)

  Myron (1900–1987)

  Lily (1902–1918)

  Benjamin Satterfield III (1888–1944)

  1910—Married Opal (1896–1911)

  Benjamin, IV (1911)

  1913—Married Octavia (1890–1947)

  Robert (1915–1985)

  Calvin (1916–1918)

  Lucille (1919–1986)

  Geneva (1922)

  George (1925–2001) and Herbert (1925–1980)

  Robert (1915–1985)

  1939—Married Lela (1925–2005)

  Joy (1940–)

  Glenda (1942–)

  Carol Ruth (1943)

  Nancy (1946–2003)

  Sandra (1949–)

  Bonita (1950–)

  Hank (1953–)

  Hank (1953–present)

  1983—Married Rosemary (1964–1997)

  Romy (1985–present)

  THE McELROYS

  Shaymus Magilroy (1830–1899)

  1859—Married Janie (1845–1942) and divorced her in 1866

  James (1860–1874)

  Luke (1861–1918)

  1867—Married Ruby (1850–1873)

  Robert (1868–1918)

  Jeb (1870–1932)

  Stonewall Jackson (1872–1885)

  1874—Married Sarah (1848–1912)

  Euler (1874–1918)

  Luke (1861–1918)

  1880—Married Sarah (1866–1884)

  Leroy (1881–1894)

  Ruth (1882–1947)

  Esther (1883–1984)

  John (1894)

  1886—Married Virginia (1860–1918)

  South America (1888–1909)

  Christopher Columbus (1890–1977)

  George Washington (1893–1945)

  John Adam (1896–1982)

  Cuba (1898–1990)

  California (1900–1948)

  Dakota (1902–1918)

  Grover (1905)

  Christopher Columbus MacElroy (1890–1977)

  1908—Married Eunice (1892–1911)

  Jasper (1908-1909)

  1912—Married Sarah (1895–1957)

  Siller (1914–1918)

  R. C. (1917–1963)

  Houston (1919–1945)

  Effie (1920–1922)

  Exie (1923–1975)

  A. T. (1925–1928)

  R. C. McElroy (1917–1963)

  1935—Married Martha (1913–1950)

  Stillborn baby (1935)

  Martha (1936–2010)

  Mary (1937–1978)

  Matthew (1938–1992)

  Mark (1940–1990)

  Luke (1942)

  John (1943–)

  Magdalene (1945–)

  Matthew McElroy (1938–1992)

  1955—Married Louise (1938–2001)

  Curtis (1955–)

  Charles (1957–)

  Carol (1958–)

  Cheryl (1960–1967)

  Callie (1962–)

  R. C. (1964–)

  Curtis McElroy (1955–present)

  1979—Married Janice (1960–1980)

  1985—Married Debbie (1966–present)

  Julian (1985–present)

  Julian

  I was minding my own business, trying to figure out how many shifts I’d have to take at the dealership to keep the farm afloat, when I saw the Porsche barreling straight for me. Shiny silver, it mesmerized me to the point where I didn’t realize the driver wasn’t going to stop despite the fact that I was clearly in the middle of the crosswalk.

  And then, asphalt.

  Well, Julian, if you’re going to be run over by a car, it might as well be expensive.

  “Oh, my God, I am so, so sorry.”

  That voice sounded familiar.

  “Don’t ever apologize, dear. It might be a legal liability.”

  That voice didn’t.

  “Julian?”

  I shot to my feet, hardly registering the stiffness or the jolt of pain that ran down my right leg, the one I’d injured playing high school baseball. Today was the day I’d finally run into Romy. Or the day she had finally run into me.

  I couldn’t tell if it was the sun or a possible head injury that made a sort of halo shine off her dark, glossy hair. I kept blinking, thinking I’d see her in an old concert tee and cutoffs, but, no, she was wearing designer jeans and a f
orm-hugging shirt scooped low enough for me to see the tops of her breasts. She raked straightened hair behind her ear with meticulously manicured fingernails.

  It was like looking at Romy’s evil twin sister.

  “Romy, darling, don’t you think you should move out of the middle of the road? It would appear he’s unharmed.” A dark-haired man leaned against the passenger door like he owned the damn car, which he probably did.

  She registered the honking horns and the two lines of blocked traffic about the same time I did. She’d thrown me into the opposite lane and we stood there, blocking traffic going one way while the Porsche blocked traffic coming from the other direction.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay, I’d better move,” she murmured as she turned.

  Something about seeing her walk away so casually caused a lump to form in my throat. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Cars honked. Someone speculated long and loud on our ancestry.

  “Richard, this is”—she hesitated—“Julian, an old friend. Julian, this is my boyfriend, Richard.”

  Boyfriend. I knew I didn’t like him for some reason.

  Sirens wailed as the Yessum County Sheriff skidded into the intersection. “For the love of God, Julian, get out of the middle of the road!”

  Len Rogers loved that bullhorn. I had a suggested location for it.

  “Do you need for me to call an ambulance?” Len spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

  “Hell, no.”

  “Good. Both of you. Over there. In front of the café.”

  Romy jerked the Porsche into one of the spaces along the curb on Main Street. I crossed the street, willing my injured leg not to limp. We congregated under the awning of the jewelry store beside the café, and the boyfriend decided to speak.

  “Officer, I’m not sure what the proper procedure is, but we will cooperate to the best—”

  “Oh, Richard, it’s Len. I went to school with him.” Romy sighed.

  Len adopted his Barney Fife stance, puffing up to show his importance despite Romy’s casual dismissal. He reached into his back pocket to take out his notepad, then licked the tip of one finger before he flipped through carbons to get to the first clean page. “Now what happened?”

  “I didn’t realize there was a new traffic light, and I accidentally ran it.”

  “Rosemary, you don’t—”

  She turned on her boyfriend with a raised eyebrow. “I made a mistake. I’m admitting it.”

  Len looked me up and down once more, no doubt trying to assess if I needed a doctor. “What about you, McElroy?”

  “I got the ‘walk’ sign, started walking.”

  Len nodded, then went back to his notepad, biting his tongue as he wrote. Next he drew out a ticket book. He hastily scribbled a ticket and ripped it off with a flourish. “This one’s yours for running a red light.”

  He scribbled again before ripping one out for me. “And this here ticket’s for jaywalking.”

  Blood pumped behind my ears. “That’s a load of horseshit.”

  “Hush up and go on down to the courthouse and pay that five dollars. You were a good three feet out of the crosswalk. If you don’t knock it off, we’ll add obstruction of justice.”

  “Okay, now that—” Richard started to speak, but Romy clamped down on his upper arm to silence him.

  “Is that it, Len? I’m really sorry for the fuss,” she said.

  He smiled and tipped his hat. “That’s enough. Thank you.” He took two steps away before turning on his heel and coming right back.

  “No, that is not enough. Now, look here, you two.” He pointed his billy club first at me and then at Romy. “Things have been right peaceful since you went off to Vanderbilt, and I will have no shenanigans in my town. You got that?”

  Romy and I looked at each other. I drank in the face I hadn’t seen in almost ten years. It was a little more angular and slathered in expensive makeup, but she was still Romy and still beautiful.

  “I’m sorry, officer, but what are you talking about?” Richard asked, bringing me back to the present.

  “These two are troublemakers. Come from a whole long line of ’em. Satterfields and McElroys. I thought we’d got past the worst of it when they got together in high school, then this one”—he pointed to Romy—“up and ran off to Nashville.”

  He pointed the club at me. “And this one went on a few benders, but I’ve just about got him straightened out.”

  Romy’s mossy-green eyes darted to me, her eyebrows bunched with concern.

  “Got together in high school?” Richard echoed.

  So, Romy hasn’t told her new boy toy everything.

  She turned to him. “Julian was the guy I was engaged to.” She leveled those eyes back on me, daring me to contradict her.

  That’s part of the story.

  “And I don’t care why you’re back or what happened between the two of you.” Len leveled his billy club at Richard for the first time. “I don’t even care who you are. If you cause any trouble around here, I will throw the book at you. Each and every one of you.”

  “Surely—” Richard began, but Len had already started ambling back to his cruiser with his exaggerated John Wayne walk.

  “Well, good to see you again, Romy.” I went to tip my hat only to realize it was still in the middle of Main Street getting run over repeatedly. That figured.

  “Julian,” she muttered.

  “Nice to meet you, Julian, even if it wasn’t in the best of circumstances,” Richard said with a bland smile as he extended his hand.

  His grip was surprisingly strong, causing me to study his face once more. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.

  I kinda wanted to punch the smug smile off his face, but I didn’t have cause. It looked like he was taking good care of her, and I’d given up any such claims long ago. If this was the man she wanted, who was I to stand in her way? I glanced at the Porsche as she slid into the driver’s seat and Richard closed the door behind him. I sure as hell could never get her a car like that.

  She jerked into traffic, and I bit back a smile. She still couldn’t drive a stick for nothing. The vanity plate said PARIS1, and I frowned. That’s where I’d seen him before. He was one of the Parises of Nashville, and they were lawyers and politicians all of them. Romy was dating one of the richest men in Tennessee.

  And there were a lot of things she wasn’t telling him.

  Romy

  “So that’s the infamous Julian who broke your heart, eh?”

  I didn’t care for Richard’s tone of voice, and I couldn’t believe I’d been stupid enough not to see the new traffic light. First, I’d been distracted by the charred shell of what had been the Merle Norman store. Then, I’d fumbled with the clutch and the brakes on Richard’s car. I still couldn’t really drive a manual, but Richard had insisted I drive since I knew the way home.

  Home. My heart clenched as I looked at the rows of cotton blurring together on either side of the car. His ridiculous sports car purred down the country road that led out of town to the farm where I’d grown up. Home meant fields and pastures, winding country roads.

  And Julian.

  Of all the idiots on all the roads in all the world, why did Julian have to walk in front of the car I was driving? I wasn’t ready to see him. Logically, I knew I’d never make it through the entire summer without running into him, but I had hoped to prolong the inevitable for as long as possible. So much for that.

  Seeing him lying on the ground had been a gut punch. First, I was afraid I’d hurt him. Then, I was hoping I’d hurt him because he’d definitely hurt me. But then those long eyelashes had fluttered and he’d trained those confused baby blues on me. Same wavy blond hair, same thin white scar on his chin—and same lost feeling when I saw him.

  “Hello, earth to Rosemary!” Richard chuckled. “You okay over there?”

  I summoned a smile for him. “Yeah, I’m just rattled, I guess.”
>
  “Almost running over someone or seeing Julian?”

  “Both.” The truth came out before I could stop it. I glanced over to Richard. He had the profile of a Greek god with a straight nose, strong chin, and firm lips. I’d once lost an entire twenty minutes of Western Civ comparing his profile with that of my textbook photo of Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne. When Richard asked me out after class, I took it as a sign. No man had ever distracted me from class—not even Julian.

  “I wish I’d punched him,” Richard said.

  But punching wasn’t his style. Like the Greeks, he placed a high premium on philosophy, logic, and reason. He tended to use words and the law as his weapons of choice.

  And that’s why you should tell him about your predicament.

  I should, but I wasn’t going to. Satterfields cleaned up their own messes. Besides, what Richard didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He was dropping me off at home then traveling back to Nashville. With just the slightest bit of cooperation from Julian, I could have everything taken care of before Richard came back for my birthday.

  “Your silence implies you don’t want me to punch him. Interesting.” His brown eyes bored through me as I guided the car up the hill, trying to give it enough gas to keep it from slipping out of gear.

  “No, it’s not that.” Truly, Julian getting beat up by Richard was a satisfying, if unlikely, image. “He’s just not worth your time.”

  Richard liked that answer and went back to studying the area where I’d grown up. My eyes traveled over to Wanamaker’s store and I brought them right back to the road, not wanting to remember the last time I was there. But what did Richard see when he looked at that country store? Or the row of mailboxes on the corner from where an ancestor had decided he wanted his mail to go through one post office instead of another? Should I point out the houses of relatives and friends or the spot where the one-room schoolhouse had been? I couldn’t find the words to tell him my mundane stories. What did he think about a place like this when he’d grown up in a mansion in suburban Nashville?