Southern Belles A Novel about Love Purpose & Second Chances

Southern Belles

  A Novel about Love, Purpose & Second Chances

  Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Anderson

  www.sarahandersonauthor.com

  Cover models: Natasha Dembinski, Whitney Ostyn

  Cover photograph: Katie Hess

  Cover Design by Amy Guilford

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review and as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the author. Thank you for respecting the integrity of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead and events are purely coincidental and are not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Best Friends, Dreams, & Promises

  Chapter 2 - Goodbye High School

  Chapter 3 - Oh the Places You Will Go

  Chapter 4 - Prince Charming

  Chapter 5 - The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives

  Chapter 6 - Sick in Love

  Chapter 7 - A Clearer Picture

  Chapter 8 - Thanksgiving with The Buchanan’s

  Chapter 9 - Christmas Surprises

  Chapter 10 - An Order of Mass and Fries Please

  Chapter 11 - If the Apron Fits

  Chapter 12 - Southern Women and Their Tea

  Chapter 13 - Momma Elephant

  Chapter 14 - Lucy Grace and a Side of Grits

  Chapter 15 - The First Year

  Chapter 16 - The Good Ole Days are Here Again

  Chapter 17 - Secrets

  Chapter 18 - I Need You

  Chapter 19 - La Bonne Vie

  Chapter 20 - Love, Georgia Style

  Chapter 21 - Oak & Main

  Chapter 22 - Southern Belles

  Chapter 23 - Puppies & Butterflies

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter 1: Best Friends, Dreams & Promises

  Growing up my momma always use to say, “You have the power to change your fate.” I had never really paid attention when she said this because I felt it was her way of telling me that I must be messing something up. It’s not that she’s some kind of control freak or even a perfectionist, just the opposite actually. She’s the kind of mom that is whole-heartedly good; almost perfect. It wasn’t until years later that I realized the magnitude of that often used phrase. When you’re young and the world is your oyster; nothing is off limits. It’s as if the whole world is rooting for you to win—to grab your dreams by the wheel and throw them into drive. Sometimes though, after a few blows to your pride and a loss of direction, it’s easy to become jaded. Maybe the right word is hopeless. I hadn’t realized that one choice I made had led me to believe my life, my dreams, and the chance of ever being truly happy was over. Not until I had sat around feeling sorry for myself, for what seemed like forever, had I suddenly become aware of the truth behind my mother’s words. From a very early age I knew I was destined to be a writer; an inspirer for a life fully lived, but for a while, I believed that because of one fateful night my future would never amount to the dreams that kept me up at night, planning the many places I would visit and write award-winning stories about. What I learned when I finally came out of the darkness that ensnared my mind is that although I had made a mistake, that would forever change my fate, I, nor the effects of my mistake, defined me or closed the door to my dreams. I found that God still believed in me and was giving me the opportunity to take the choices I made and turn them into a masterpiece about two best friends, second chances, and finding that once-in-a-lifetime love.

  Before I can tell you that story though, I have to go back to the beginning, not to the day I was born beginning, but to fifth grade, the day my best friend and I met Eric Sothersby and made a life-long pact.

  It was a typical warm spring morning in beautiful St. Marys, Georgia, where I, along with the three prior generations of the Buchanan family, grew up, farming. Like every other weekday morning I was rushing to get to the locker first because my best friend, who was notoriously late, and which drove her mother mad, would hog the mirror putting on the finishing touches of her face. Since, I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up yet; I would try to get there first to have control of the mirror so I could put on my make-up. Make-up—which my father would have washed off my face with a little spit and the palm of his hand had he spotted the slightest bit of color from my demeanor. Oh, yes, I know this because it happened one morning while I was waiting for the bus. I thought I had been sneaky and kept my face hidden from him, starring in the window opposite his direction while sitting in his truck, waiting for the bus. Right as the bus roared up, I turned to kiss him goodbye and lo did he catch my arm, look at me with his furrowed brow and with speed-lighting swiftness lick his hand and smear off the rouge that colored my cheeks and lips. Not only had I ended up with slobber draped all over my face, and blotches of color—all the kids on the bus got a front-row seat to this horrifying event.

  So, as usual, I was putting my things away in the locker, on this peaceful May morning, when CeCe surprised me by showing up earlier than usual. She said she woke up feeling lucky that morning and wanted to get to school. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was some sort of sixth sense of hers knowing something good was about to happen or if it was just her ‘take life by the reins and get going’ attitude that could be summed up as CeCe’s mantra.

  “Good morning girlfriend” CeCe said in a quirky and bright manner, “I think you need more blue eye shadow Char.”

  “CeCe, I haven’t even put any make-up on yet,” I explained, frowning slightly.

  “Oh, I just thought maybe you put it on too light- or is that a vein?”

  “No, CeCe, I just got here. I haven’t had a chance to put any make-up on. Besides, what are you doing here so early?”

  “It’s early?” CeCe questioned, with a faint smile on her face.

  “For you, it’s early.”

  “Oh, well, I woke up this morning and not only was my mom not nagging me, but the sun was shining on my face… almost begging me to wake up and get to school.”

  “That’s interesting but I have to finish putting on my make-up before the bell rings.”

  “Char, hurry up, okay? I still have to spray my hair up another inch.”

  “CeCe, it’s already like three inches high! If you spray it up anymore, you’re going to fly away.”

  “Okay Char—move out of the way so I can get in there real quick while you’re jabbering,” CeCe said with a little push into my side.

  “What are you doing CeCe? I need more mirror, I can’t go into class without my face on,” I retorted as I nudged her back.

  And all of a sudden while warring over the mirror, I saw the reflection of what looked like a beautiful yet unfamiliar face, directly behind me.

  “CeCe stop!” I whispered with both eyebrows raised. “Look behind you. No, don’t turn around-look in the mirror.”

  “There’s a new boy standing at the locker with Mrs. Newwater. And, he’s really cute!”

  “Move a little so I can take a better look,” CeCe whispered back, as if we were in the library.

  “I wonder if he’s in our class.”

  “Good gravy, look at his dimples!” CeCe said with a smile overwhelming her entire face.

  “Think good thoughts CeCe, you don’t want to have to visit Father John, you spent most of last week in confessional.”

  “I wasn’t in confessional most of last week—that was the week before
!”

  “Okay, the bell is going to ring any minute. I just need to put some color on my cheeks and lips—the rest can be natural.” I said, while quickly dabbing and rubbing Magenta Smile on my cheeks and lips, just as the bell went off.

  “Let’s go Char; I guess my hair will be okay.”

  Rushing in behind CeCe to my seat before the second bell rang I caught sight of the new kid standing next to Mrs. Newwater by her desk, out of my peripheral vision. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of excitement shoot up from my stomach, wondering where he came from and what he was about. Jumping into my chair, with CeCe sitting right behind me in her assigned seat, I threw my books onto my desk. I was never happier to hear the sound of the second bell going off as I knew Mrs. Newwater would soon be introducing the new kid to the class. Not only did I want to hear where he was from but also I knew from past experiences that Mrs. Newwater was going to ask for a volunteer to show him around for the day and introduce him to other students. So, I waited, patiently, or impatiently, for what seemed like way too long for the rest of my peers to finally get situated in their seats.

  “Class, class, quickly get in your seats. We have a lot to get done today and we have a new student I would like to introduce to you,” declared Mrs. Newwater, in a serious manner.

  “Students, this is Eric Sothersby. Please extend your warmest welcome. He is coming to us from the great state of Michigan, where it’s a bit colder. He and his family left most of their family there to move here and expand their insurance business. So, he will need some nice new friends to help him adjust to this big move,” explained Mrs. Newwater.

  As soon as she finished saying this, I had my hand sitting on my desk waiting to raise it the minute she asked for the volunteer. Like a game-show contestant, with my hand on the buzzer waiting to push it with the winning answer, I was ready to go to Disney World.

  “Okay ladies and gentlemen, I would like one volunteer to show Eric Sothersby around today and help him feel at home here,” Mrs. Newwater said in a sweet southern twang.

  Right as I towered my hand in the air, to rise above the other quickly lifted hands of volunteers, I felt a strong tug on my hair, flipping my head abruptly up towards the ceiling.

  “Char,” CeCe whispered in a determined voice, “put your hand down—I really want to show this kid around. I feel something special about him. And I know that if you keep your hand up Mrs. Newwater will pick you because you’re her favorite. Please, please Char!”

  Now CeCe was right. I was Mrs. Newwater’s favorite but that was probably because I never gave her any sass and I always did my homework, helped others, and came to class on time. My parents had taught me from a very early age to work hard at everything you do. As farmers, you have to work hard or you’ll starve to death…and my mom was one of the Kindergarten teachers at our school, so I had to do well as she had lots of eyes on me and my brothers growing up. CeCe, however, had always been the handful. With a whole lot of sass, an abundance of style, and a dash of humor, CeCe was given everything she wanted as an only child, making her a bit more challenging to deal with when she made up her mind about something.

  “CeCe, take your hand off my hair,” I whispered back in a squeaky voice, trying not to make any more of a scene.

  “I promise Char, if you let me show Eric around I’ll let you have the next perfect guy,” CeCe said with all sincerity and hope.

  Just as I caught Mrs. Newwater eying me, with one hand on Eric’s shoulder, and the other hand beginning to raise and point, I took a quick, deep breath.

  “Okay CeCe, quit grabbing my hair, you can have him. But the next Prince Charming is mine,” I said as I lowered my hand back to the desk.

  “Thank you, thank you Char.”

  With a quizzical look on her face and her hand pointing in our direction, Mrs. Newwater glanced at me again. This time, with a tilt of her head side-to-side, she announced that Cecilia Crawford would be showing Eric Sothersby around today and to “please give him the warmest welcome as you pass by him, class”.

  I quickly turned around to see a mixture of both satisfaction and victory dancing all over CeCe’s face. I could see that she was elated, almost enough to wonder what she had dreamed up in her full-of-ideas mind.

  “Char, thank you so much,” CeCe mouthed to me when I turned around.

  “CeCe, you owe me big time, I thought he was cute too and besides you better be nice to him and not scare him.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course, I won’t scare him. I am just going to show him some true southern hospitality,” she said in a slightly impish way with one side of her smile curved up.

  “That’s what I’m worried about CeCe. You’ll be visiting Father John in no time” I whispered to her as I moved in my seat to turn back around, with CeCe still smiling.

  A few weeks before, while sitting in mass, and yes there are Catholic Christians in the south, Father John had preached about purity and how only the pure in heart will see God. While I had heard this verse many a times in my household (my mother was Baptist and my father Catholic before they met) my best friend, CeCe, had not. My parents, Richard and Susan Buchanan, both deeply devoted to serving God in various ways, felt it imperative to raise their children to have a healthy fear of God. CeCe, only child of parents, James and Beverly Crawford, two highly successful divorce attorneys, felt going to mass was just the right thing to do but had no personal convictions about church or God, in general. Going back to mass, a few weeks ago, Father John had given a sermon on Matthew 5:8 about being pure in mind and having pure motives to live a blessed life. Somehow CeCe must have been listening that day and had been frequenting to confessional, ‘to rid my mind of impure thoughts’ since. She said that she felt a bit convicted about all the boys she’s kissed, sassing off to her parents and probably some other things she forgot to mention. To most people, CeCe comes off as assuredly strong and confident but I’ve seen the layer underneath all that sneak out—the layer where she is vulnerable to the voices of others telling her what she’s not or what she is lacking…mainly the voice of her mother. Beverly Crawford, CeCe’s mom and Miss Georgia Peach 1969, the magna cum laude of her graduate law class, successful high-profile divorce attorney and co-owner, with her husband, of a private law firm in Savannah, amongst a very long list of other accomplishments, is well known as a leader in our community. However, CeCe likes to refer to her as the ‘steam-roller’. Looking at this picture-perfect family, everyone appears to be beautiful, happy, and the ideal of a prominent family from the south. And while half of that is right, CeCe has always struggled with feeling good enough or accomplished enough to be her mother’s daughter. Living up to the very high expectations her mother has imposed on her has been her Achilles heel. When CeCe isn’t trying her hardest to make her parent’s or at least her mother proud (her father has always been a quiet, gentle soul) she is popping off at the mouth or making waves in some entertaining or jaw-dropping way, which usually lands her in the principal’s office where we first met. CeCe and I had gone to the same church since we were babies but we never really talked to each other until third grade when I got sick and was sent to the principal’s office to wait for my mother. Before that day—before I saw into a small window of the real CeCe, I had always been a little bit afraid of her and yet intrigued by her too. I had previously associated CeCe with her parents; very polished, high-class, and uber-intelligent snobby people. That and my family are more common-country folk, far from the places or lifestyle CeCe’s family was accustomed to. After we became friends, I’d tease her and call her Madonna, who was also Catholic, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and reminded me a lot of CeCe because she too, was high-style, bold, and shocking just like CeCe. That day in third grade when I got sick, my father had been away on business, trying to seal a deal with another retail supermarket to distribute our peaches, so I had to go down to the principal’s office (actually just to the waiting bench outside the office) until the substitute teacher arrived so that m
y mother could leave her Kindergarten class and take me home. Meanwhile, CeCe found herself bored. She was whispering not so quietly to another classmate while the teacher was instructing. As you can probably already imagine, most teachers do not like to be interrupted and especially by a sassy little sweet-faced southern peach. Right in the middle of the lecture, the teacher stopped and looking straight at CeCe with his finger pointed about six inches from her nose demanded to know if she would “like to be the first person to see Mars”. Without missing a beat, CeCe replied “actually Mr. Bartlemy, National Geographic already reported that they found a face on Mars.” With his face beaming several shades of red, and hand jerking towards the door, he yelled “out” to CeCe. Looking innocent and unaware of what just happened, CeCe made her way to the principal’s office with Mr. Bartlemy quickly in tow. She knew what this meant, as she was really good at pushing Mr. Bartlemy’s buttons and had made several trips to the principal’s office previously for comments similar to these. CeCe always had something to say about anything and had quick wit to add to it. Although, this time, she was serious, due to the fact she really had just read an article in National Geographic about scientists finding what looked to be like a human-face on the surface of Mars. Only CeCe would be able to recall such a fact in a moment like this. Anyway, although highly familiar with the interior design of the principal’s office, CeCe instead looked worried while sitting next to me on the waiting bench, instead of the cool cucumber she usually was. Feeling like I was going to puke again, I sat close to the wastebasket eyeing CeCe from time-to-time as she fidgeting with her fingers, watching Mr. Bartlemy talk to the principle. Starting to dry-heave, I bent over towards the trashcan, keeping a tight hold on my hair to not get any possible chunks of puke stuck in there. CeCe, who I had never spoken with before then and looking slightly sick at the sight of my current condition asked if she could get me a tissue. Quickly moving away from me, on the waiting bench, she grabbed a tissue from the counter, and tossed it at me. I think she meant to hand it to me but got nervous, dropping it, when another belching noise abruptly arose from my insides. Muscling all the strength I had to talk and not vomit, I murmured “thank you” to her. She a bit awkwardly said “you’re welcome” while keeping an eye on the principle and Mr. Bartlemy whom were now on the phone, with someone—probably CeCe’s mom.

  Feeling terrible and not having any care left, other than to get home and climb in bed as soon as my mom came, I mustered up the courage to say “it’s probably not that bad”.

  Surprised, CeCe turned towards me with a half smile half worried look.

  “It’s probably not as bad as you think,” I said. “Mr. Bartlemy has a bad reputation for blowing up too easily, at least that’s what I’ve heard my mother say. So, I’m sure the principle is taking that into consideration,” I said with my head still pointed towards the trashcan, in an attempt to help her feel better or at least less anxious, as her toe-tapping was starting to bring up extra belches from all the vibrations on the bench.

  A bit guarded, which I had always thought to be snobbery, CeCe cautiously smiled, this time with both sides of her mouth, “I don’t think we’ve ever talked, I’m CeCe.”

  “I know. We’ve gone to the same church since we were little.”

  “My mother’s going to set my butt on fire if she has to come down here again to pick me up,” CeCe explained nervously. “She probably won’t come, she’ll probably make Ms. Winnie come and get me, knowing her.”

  “Who’s Ms. Winnie?”

  “Oh, that’s my nanny, but I like to call her mom sometimes—in front of my mother just to see how fast I can make my mother’s head whip around.”

  Trying not to laugh up puke, I giggled, which also caused CeCe to laugh and forget about the trouble she was in momentarily.

  “My mother is too important for me so Ms. Winnie has always been there, for everything. My mom is a lawyer and is always working, always telling me ‘just a minute, just a minute’ which actually turns into an hour later and then she only has a minute and rushes me with whatever I’m trying to tell her.”

  “Sometimes moms just get busy. I’m sure she cares and that’s probably why she wants to light your butt on fire when you get in trouble.”

  A bit puzzled, CeCe shook her head, “well, maybe.”

  Just then my mom was arriving to finally take me home. As I got off the bench to leave, CeCe tapped me on the back. “Do you want to sit by me at lunch tomorrow?”

  “That would be nice, if I’m not puking.” I said smiling while trying to choke back the vomit resting in my throat.

  And that’s how I first met CeCe, the softer side of CeCe that most people don’t know. Not sure how I got off topic but back in Mrs. Newwater’s fifth grade class, CeCe was already cooking up plans for Eric Sothersby. I could tell by the look on her face when the bell rang for second period she had an agenda. As we scooted out of our seats and into the hallway for our next class, down the hall, I could see CeCe smiling and escorting Eric to what looked like the janitor’s closet door.

  I knew what that meant…back to confessional.