Chapter One
“Okay, from first position now go to second,” I instructed. My voice rose to be heard over the classical strains of Bach pumping in from the sound system overhead. Tiny dancers outfitted in an array of colorful leotards squirmed and giggled rather than assuming the correct positions. Glancing at the clock, I blew a few errant strands of dark hair out of my eyes that had escaped my tight bun. With only five minutes left before dance class was over and summer break began, I don’t know why I bothered with any instructions. Their minds were miles away. “Girls, are any of you listening to me?”
“Yes, Miss Lane,” they replied dutifully.
“Good. Then go ahead and pack up early. Then you can free dance the last few minutes.”
Ear piercing squeals of delight went up over the room. There was nothing they loved more than being able to goof around in front of the mirrors at the end of the day. I couldn’t help grinning at their enthusiasm.
It was t-minus five minutes before I would begin the same summer ritual I’d had my entire life. I would be abandoning the comforts of home in Marietta—a suburb of Atlanta—for the wilds of the North Georgia Mountains. I’d be trading my college textbooks, along with my tutus, for extreme family time and my summer job at Maudie’s Mountain Orchard and Brewery.
Once the last girl had given me a hug and I’d collected quite a few end-of-the-year presents from the parents, I slipped into the bathroom to change out of my black leotard and wrap skirt and into some shorts. As I slid my folded clothes into my bag, my phone chirped with a text. “Dad,” I murmured without even glancing at the screen. Although my twentieth birthday was only a few days away, my overprotective parents had a hard time believing I wasn’t their little girl anymore. Instead of driving myself out-of-town, they were picking me up. They claimed it made better financial sense for me to ride with one of them since we had two cars at our summer home, but I knew better. It was more about them still wanting to be smothering, over-protective parents.
Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I grabbed my packages and gave my studio one final glance before heading outside. Dad’s fire engine red Volvo convertible sat at the curb. “Hey baby girl.”
He hopped out of the front seat to help load my gifts and bag into the trunk. “Looks like you racked up again today,” he mused.
I grinned. “I think so. I have enough Starbucks cards to get me through the summer.”
“And thankfully Ellijay has become even more civilized by building one.”
“I know. Thank God.”
As I buckled up, Dad said, “Mom’s just gotten on the interstate, so she won’t be too much ahead of us.”
“Sounds good.”
Dad’s phone rang then, and we both spent the next thirty minutes wrapped up in our individual social media. When he finally hung up the phone, he glanced over at me with a grin. “Ah, smell that beautiful smog free oxygen.” He inhaled sharply, gulping in air like a drowning man who had just broken the surface of water. He probably would have done something truly mortifying like sticking his head out the window like a dog, but it was kinda pointless to do that in the convertible.
“Yeah, it’s totally awesome, Dad,” I mumbled in response, never taking my eyes off my iPhone. My fingers flew furiously over the keyboard as I was using the last precious moments before the service got spotty the further we traveled into the mountains. I promised friends I’d Facetime and text with them and maybe even make it back to the city a few times before August rolled around.
“Bet you can’t wait to get that city grit outta your hair and pump some fresh mountain air into your lungs?”
I inwardly groaned at his over the top enthusiasm. But when Dad threw a glance over at me, I plastered on my most sincere smile. “Sure.”
Dad grinned. “That’s my girl.”
He usually wasn’t such a goofball when we were back home in Marietta. But something always happened to him that first day we packed up the car and headed out of town. I guess you could say the mountains were my dad’s muse—the place where he penned the crime novels he was famous for.
Motioning his head towards the bound manuscript on my lap, he asked “So what do you think of the new one?”
Even though I was only coming off of my second year of college, Dad trusted me as one of the first people to read his novels before he sent them to his agent and editor. Somehow in middle school I graduated from Harry Potter and dove head first into the gritty world of Dad’s famous Southern detective, Harrison Baylor.
Discarding my phone, I flipped through the pages of his latest masterpiece, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “I think it’s another New York Times solid gold.”
“Really?” Dad questioned, his voice uncertain.
“Of course. And I really like where you’re going with Harrison’s darker side.”
“You don’t think he’s too…oh what’s that word you teenagers use for depression?”
“Emo?”
“That’s it.”
A snort escaped my lips at how utterly clueless Dad was to think his 6’3, 250-pound detective was anything close to teenage angst. “No, I think it’s great. It’s showing the growth of his character since the earlier books.”
“Good. That’s exactly what I was shooting for.”
We zipped along Interstate 515 with the wind rippling our hair and clothes. Digging in my purse for my brush, I readjusted my hair back into a loose twist. Although the air was cooler the farther we got out of the city and into the mountains, it was still a typical stifling June day. I shifted between my mammoth purse and dance bag, trying to get my legs out of the direct sunlight. Despite my dark hair, I didn’t want to be stinging with sunburn later from my ultra-pale skin.
When my stomach started rumbling, I turned my head to survey where we were. As if on cue, a giant sign boasted, “Maudie’s Mountain Brewery and Orchard. One Mile Ahead”.
I leaned forward in my seat. “We’re still stopping at Maudie’s, aren’t we?”
Dad smiled. “Of course. If we even tried sneaking on to the lodge, we’d never hear the end of it.”
I laughed. “You’re right.”
“I told your mother to stop off there as well.”
Not only were the mountains Dad’s muse, but they were also the home of Maudie Sinclair—his one-time foster mother. He was only five when he moved in with her and her husband, John, for three years until he was adopted. But he always kept in close contact with Maudie, and she’s always been like a second grandmother to me.
We turned into the store’s packed parking lot. Dad eased into a spot between two cars with out-of-state license plates. Twenty years ago, Maudie had started making jams and jellies as a hobby and to make some extra cash. That progressed to opening a store in a log cabin right off the interstate. But the real breakthrough came after mixing peach and apple juice together, along with some other concoctions, to make the frothy, tart Maudie’s Mountain Brew. It came in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions. Her business kept growing, and now included stores all throughout North Georgia. The main store was still in a log cabin situated just below her house and about a half a mile from ours. One of the best parts of my summers in the sticks was working for Maudie.
Dad didn’t even get a chance to knock on her office door before she bounded out to meet us with Mom close on her heels. “Well hello! I’m so glad y’all finally made it.”
From summer to summer, Maudie never changed. Always outfitted in some kind of gauzy flowing skirt along with a peasant blouse, she had a hippie grandmother look. Her long silver hair was swept into its usual loose knot, and a large turquoise Dream Catcher necklace hung from her neck.
I lunged forward to wrap my arms around her. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against her shoulder, inhaling her comforting fragrance of strawberry. “I’ve missed you!”
“I’ve missed you too, Laney-Poo,” she replied, clutching me tightly to her. When we finally pulled away, she wagged a finger at my dad. “Stephen, you better start coming during the winter more. I get mighty lonesome for y’all.”
Dad held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will try. ”
Mom smiled. “It’s my fault really. My teaching schedule makes it hard to get away for more than a few days at a time. And then there’s Lane’s college and dance schedule.”
Maudie smiled and brushed the hair out of my face. “Ah, yes, our little Twinkle Toes.”
“Ugh, you know I hate that nickname,” I protested, playfully nudging Maudie.
“I’m always going to call you that. Even if you make it all the way to the National Ballet, I’ll shout it out to you at one of the performances.”
“The National Ballet? I think you’re setting the bar a little high for me, no pun intended.”
Maudie cupped my chin. “And why not?”
I shook my head furiously. “That’s way too grueling and intense for me. I just want to earn my business degree and one day have my own dance studio.”
“I like a gal with a plan,” she replied with a grin.
“Lane’s a chip off the old Maudie Sinclair shoulder,” Dad mused.
The sound of huffing and grunting behind us interrupted our conversation. Two deliverymen stood balancing a large wooden crate between them. “Where ya want this, Mrs. Sinclair?”
“Ooh, bring it right on into my office, boys,” Maudie squealed, clapping her hands together like an excited toddler. Her green eyes danced with excitement when she turned back to us. “Wait until you see my newest treasure.”
Mom and Dad chuckled at Maudie’s enthusiasm. “I’d wager it’s another piece of Cherokee art,” Mom said.
Maudie had a thing for Native American art, especially Georgia tribes like the Cherokee and Creeks. Her house was practically a museum of sculptures, paintings, and pottery. She had one of the largest collections in the Southeast and was always adding to it.
While one of the men strained to open the top with a crow bar, Maudie sighed with contentment. “I just got it at an auction a few weeks ago in North Carolina,” she told us. Then with a sheepish grin, she added, “I spent way more than I should have. Of course, it didn’t help that there was this obnoxious man trying to outbid me. I just had to put him in his place.”
We laughed along with her. After all, Maudie’s stubborn streak was well known.
As the gilded frame was pulled from the crate, we all leaned forward, peering expectantly. Maudie gave it a loving glance. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Tilting my head to the side, I examined the oil painting. It reminded me of a picture I’d seen in my US History 101 textbook about the Trail of Tears. Instead of several Cherokee Indian men and women, bundled in animal skin and blankets, trekking through snow drifts with anguished expressions, there was only one man. Sorrow etched his heavily lined face as he raised his bloody hands to the sky. At his feet, a fawn lay crumpled in the snow, a crimson river flowing out from her. “I don’t know about it being gorgeous.” Maudie’s jaw drooped in defeat, so I hastily added, “I mean, it’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”
“Why honey, that’s the point! The emotions humming off this are palpable. But it’s not just the drawing that makes it such a rare find.”
“Oh?”
She bobbed her gray head. “This was done by the grandson of a Cherokee Chief. He drew it with firsthand knowledge of what his great-grandfather went through. I didn’t get all the particulars, but it’s supposed to be a symbolic representation of his daughter’s death. It was passed down through two generations until the family fell on hard times and had to sell it.”
“That’s fascinating,” Mom replied, her history professor senses tingling.
Dad and I exchanged an amused glance before bobbing our heads in agreement.
“And I know the perfect place for it, too.” She motioned to the empty wall above her office sofa. “But first, I have to replace the hanger on the back. It doesn’t look sturdy enough, and I’d hate for it to get damaged.” She eased the painting back into the crate and closed the lid. “Now then. How about an early dinner?” Maudie suggested.
Dad glanced at Mom before shaking his head. “No, we really need to get on to the house and get settled in.”
Mom laughed. “What he means to say is Lane and I’ll be doing the settling in while he disappears onto the back porch with his laptop.”
“Exactly,” I replied.
Dad’s face momentarily reddened. “What can I say? I have to work when the muse hits, and I can feel the juices starting to cook.”
Maudie smiled. “I understand. If your muse cooperates, could I pencil you in for a home-cooked meal tomorrow night?”
After Mom and Dad agreed, Maudie turned to me. “So, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning?”
I grinned. “Of course.”