Hurricane Season Read online

  Acclaim for Lauren K. Denton

  “A poignant and heartfelt tale of sisterhood, motherhood, and marriage, Hurricane Season deftly examines the role that coming to terms with the past plays in creating a hopeful future. Readers will devour this story of the hurricanes—both literal and figurative—that shape our lives.”

  —KRISTY WOODSON HARVEY, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF SLIGHTLY SOUTH OF SIMPLE

  “Inspiring and heartwarming fiction that will please many a heart. Lauren Denton has done it again. In Hurricane Season, Denton delivers emotional depth while examining the many types of ‘storms’ that cause havoc in our lives. After making us love her characters and feel every ache of their journey, she brings us full circle through a beautiful story, reminding us all that this too shall pass.”

  —JULIE CANTRELL, NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF PERENNIALS

  “It’s true what they say. There’s no place like home. And reading a Lauren Denton book feels like coming home. With characters you’ll want as friends, a setting you can step into, and a poignant story of sisters and family ties and all the messiness of a wonderful life, Denton has penned another tale that will settle in deep and stay awhile, long after the last page is turned.”

  —CATHERINE WEST, AUTHOR OF WHERE HOPE BEGINS, FOR HURRICANE SEASON

  “An engaging, lyrical story of sisterly love. Hurricane Season is sure to add to Denton’s growing fan base.”

  —RACHEL HAUCK, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “Denton’s Hurricane Season feels like home. Through sisters Jenna and Betsy you will recognize which sister you are, the sister you could be, and the sister you yearn to become—the woman you hope to become. It’s an absolutely lovely story of love, loss, and the hope of new beginnings.”

  —KATHERINE REAY, AUTHOR OF DEAR MR. KNIGHTLEY AND THE AUSTEN ESCAPE

  “Denton’s delicious debut [The Hideaway] is a treat for the senses and the heart. Her exquisitely lyrical writing and character-driven story is a must-read.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW AND DEBUT OF THE MONTH

  “The Hideaway is the heartwarmingly southern story about the families we are given—and the families we choose. Two endearing heroines and their poignant storylines of love lost and found make this the perfect book for an afternoon on the back porch with a glass of sweet tea.”

  —KAREN WHITE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “This debut novel is the kind of book you want to curl up with on a rainy day or stick in your beach bag for your next vacation. It is poetic and compelling, emotional and full of life. Its haunting beauty will linger long with readers.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK! FOR THE HIDEAWAY

  “In this fine debut, Denton crafts a beautiful, heartbreaking story of true love that never dies. This book will please inspirational, contemporary, and historical fans alike.”

  —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW OF THE HIDEAWAY

  “Denton’s first novel charms readers with her idyllic settings and wonderful cast of characters . . . The Hideaway is a deeply satisfying exploration of family, friendship, and the meaning of home.”

  —BOOKLIST

  “From the opening of The Hideaway, the reader is captured by the voice of a woman who has for too long kept a story that must be told, one the reader wants to hear. Denton has crafted a story both powerful and enchanting: a don’t-miss novel in the greatest southern traditions of storytelling.”

  —PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “The Hideaway is a delightful tale of secrets, past regrets, and second chances. You will fall in love with these characters, and their intriguing stories will keep you reading long into the night! A lovely debut novel!”

  —CATHERINE WEST, AUTHOR OF WHERE HOPE BEGINS

  Hurricane Season

  © 2018 by Lauren K. Denton

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Interior Design: Mallory Collins

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Denton, Lauren K., author.

  Title: Hurricane season / Lauren K. Denton.

  Description: Nashville : Thomas Nelson, [2018] | “A Southern novel of two sisters and the storms they must weather.”

  Epub Edition February 2018 9780718084264

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017039715 | ISBN 9780718084257 (softcover)

  Subjects: LCSH: Self-realization--Fiction. | Motherhood--Fiction. | Sisters--Fiction. | Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.E5956 H87 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017039715

  Printed in the United States of America

  18 19 20 21 22 LSC 5 4 3 2 1

  For Kate and Sela

  and for Matt

  Contents

  One: Betsy

  Two: Jenna

  Three: Jenna

  Four: Ty

  Five: Betsy

  Six: Betsy

  Seven: Ty

  Eight: Betsy

  Nine: Betsy

  Ten: Jenna

  Eleven: Betsy

  Twelve: Ty

  Thirteen: Jenna

  Fourteen: Betsy

  Fifteen: Betsy

  Sixteen: Jenna

  Seventeen: Jenna

  Eighteen: Ty

  Nineteen: Jenna

  Twenty: Betsy

  Twenty-one: Ty

  Twenty-two: Betsy

  Twenty-three: Jenna

  Twenty-four: Betsy

  Twenty-five: Ty

  Twenty-six: Betsy

  Twenty-seven: Jenna

  Twenty-eight: Betsy

  Twenty-nine: Ty

  Thirty: Jenna

  Thirty-one: Betsy

  Thirty-two: Betsy

  Thirty-three: Betsy

  Thirty-four: Jenna

  Thirty-five: Betsy

  Thirty-six: Jenna

  Thirty-seven: Ty

  Thirty-eight: Betsy

  Thirty-nine: Jenna

  Forty: Betsy

  Forty-one: Jenna

  Forty-two: Betsy

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  one

  Betsy

  She usually stayed in bed until at least six, but this morning she was restless, like animals get when the barometric pressure drops before a storm. It wasn’t the cows, or the approaching hurricane season, or even the milk prices, which had dipped lately. It was something else, something she couldn’t quite name. She felt like she needed to both run a mile and go back to sleep for the next three hours. It was energy and lethargy, anticipation and dread. Anna Beth would likely diagnose it in a heartbeat, but Betsy had always been good at pretending everything was just fine.

  She kicked her legs out from under the sheet, her feet searching for a cool spot in the bed Ty had just vacated. Even with the wind
ows closed and the AC pumping, heat still seeped in, filling the cracks and crevices of her old house with thick Alabama heat. The meteorologists on the news last night had been in a frenzy as they pointed out heat waves radiating across the country. It was only mid-June, but two tropical waves had already rolled off the shores of Africa. Thankfully, they’d fizzled out before reaching land.

  “We likely won’t be so lucky later in the summer,” the forecasters thundered, striking terror into the hearts of all those living near the coast, including those in Betsy’s small town of Elinore, fifteen miles north of the Gulf of Mexico. “The most active hurricane forecast in two decades,” NOAA predicted with eager excitement.

  El Niño this, La Niña that, everyone had a handy explanation for the coming tide of heat and storms that promised to pummel south Alabama and surrounding coastal areas, but Betsy had her own ideas. This summer she’d turn thirty. Not as big a milestone as forty, but it was a milestone nonetheless. The idea of thirty had always felt maternal, heavy with maturity and substance. While everyone else was talking about the fanfare of an active season—every word punctuated by an exclamation point!—all she felt was a slow hiss of air. It leaked gradually, lazily, not so quickly that anyone else would notice, but she felt it. Like a slow but steady lightening.

  Downstairs, the toe of Ty’s boot beat out a rhythm on the kitchen floor as he waited for the coffee to finish dripping. She heard his jumbo-size metal coffee mug scrape across the shelf and thunk down on the counter. The coffee pouring into the mug, the carafe sliding back into place on the hot pad. She imagined Ty’s face, prickly with the night’s passage. His hands, big and warm, knuckles sticking out from his long, sturdy fingers. His brushed-silver wedding ring.

  When the screen door thudded closed, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She grabbed a clip from her nightstand and twisted her long brown waves up into a bun, then pulled her light cotton robe around her shoulders and padded into the kitchen. At the window over the sink, she brushed aside the curtain to peek into the backyard. Ty made his way across the dewy grass to the barn. Only the curves of his shoulders were visible in the moonlight.

  The coffee was good and hot, scorching her throat on the way down. After pulling her breakfast casserole out of the fridge and popping it in the oven, she opened the back door. Damp morning air met her face with a whisper. On the porch Etta was curled up in a tight ball in her favorite spot on the couch. Betsy couldn’t stand the layer of fur Etta always left behind, but the cat was too cuddly to stay mad at for long.

  She reached down and scratched Etta’s chin and behind her ears. When she pushed open the screen door, Etta jumped down from the couch and slid between Betsy’s feet. By the time Betsy reached the bottom of the porch steps, the cat was already halfway to the barn to check for spilled milk.

  Crossing the yard, she inhaled the aroma of damp grass, earthy hay, and fresh sawdust coming from the henhouse. It was the same henhouse generations of Ty’s family had used on this property. She and Ty had repaired as necessary and added extra space a few times to accommodate more hens, but the house was basically the same. Not a typical box made of wood and screen. It had a shingled roof, weathered wood siding, even a screened porch. A trumpet vine covered in long red flowers climbed one corner post, and a gravel walkway snaked around the side. Some mornings, when dewy fog hung heavy over the farm and everything was blurry and half erased, Betsy imagined the henhouse as a home for fairies or hobbits.

  The hens got anxious if she robbed them of their eggs too early in the morning, so she crept in quietly, eased the door closed behind her, and locked it to keep the determined hens from making a quick escape. The interior was full of quiet clucking. The hens were mostly content, but Betsy knew from experience that exasperation at her intrusion wasn’t far off.

  “Good morning, little mamas,” she murmured as she pulled out eight brown eggs, lightly speckled, two yellow, and one as blue as a robin’s egg. “Worked hard this morning, didn’t you?”

  She placed the eggs in the basket hanging by the door, then scattered a few scoops of feed across the ground. The hens fluttered down from their perches to dine, all indignities forgiven.

  With the henhouse door locked tight behind her, she paused before turning back to the house. It often stopped her, the beauty—almost perfection—of their little space on this earth. Franklin Dairy Farm, the land Ty had worked and shaped and brought to life. The sky was now streaked with bold purples and blues, bright pinks and yellows. Oaks and hickories—tall, thick, and majestic—dotted their five hundred acres. She could hear the steady whoosh whoosh of the milking machines even out here in the yard. Faint strains of Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” floated out of the speakers Ty and Walker had jiggered up in the nooks and crannies of the barn.

  Through the steadily increasing light, she could just make out Ty’s outline as he stooped over a cow hooked up to a machine. Ty was thick but not overweight. Just solid, as if he could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and not buckle or even protest. She’d liked that about him when they first started dating, and it hadn’t changed.

  She thought about going out to the barn and kissing him good morning. It would surprise him, delight him. She closed her eyes and could feel his lips, warm and soft, faint prickles at the edges. He’d still smell like sleep, but also like oats, grass, and good outside air.

  She opened her eyes, lips tingling, and grabbed the basket of eggs off its hook. The eggs clattered against each other but didn’t break.

  Instead of turning toward the barn, she retraced her steps back to the house, keeping her head down to avoid the two ant beds that always magically reappeared, always in the same place, the morning after she’d poured vinegar and boiling water over them. It was amazing—they had the most industrious animals, even insects, on their property. Ants that did nothing but work, just as they were supposed to. Cows overflowing with maternal milk. Hens that offered eggs each morning without fail, their bodies giving forth life as they should. Even Etta had once offered them a litter of kittens, much to their surprise. It seemed every body on the farm consistently obeyed God’s natural order of things, producing and giving life, working and contributing as they should.

  Betsy sidestepped the ant mounds, and when she looked up, the first thing she saw was the swing, moving slowly in the breeze. The swing hung from the lowest branch of the sweeping oak tree in the backyard. The tree was like something from Grimms’ fairy tales—it sat in the middle of an otherwise treeless yard, its limbs extending twenty, thirty feet from the trunk, arms of Spanish moss swaying in the breeze, fingers of ivy trailing up and across the limbs. The shade underneath was thick and dark, always at least fifteen degrees cooler than the heat-saturated yard.

  It was the kind of tree Betsy and her sister, Jenna, would’ve loved to have had in their backyard growing up—a backdrop to their adventures, even if most of their adventures were only in their minds.

  Under the swing was a dirt patch where broods of kids—including Ty—had swung, their feet trailing in the dirt and stomping out the grass. That swing was the first thing Ty had showed Betsy when he brought her to the farm their senior year of college. They’d been together for about a year, but it wasn’t until she saw this place that she understood who he really was and what a life with him would look like. When he had pointed out the swing, she was confused at first.

  “The swing?” she asked him. “You want to take over your grandfather’s farm because of a wooden swing?”

  “No, not the swing. The farm will be profitable. I can make a few changes and get this place running smoother than lake water. It’s gonna be great.” Then he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she faced the swing directly. “Tell me what you see there.”

  “Wood. Dirt. A tree.”

  “I see children,” he said. “I hear laughter. I see a childhood spent outside in the heat and air and light. I see our future.”

  Staring at that swing now, Betsy t
ook a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed, then opened them again. The swing swayed back and forth on an invisible breeze. With her free hand, she brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped her clip and started for the house. On her way past the swing, she raised her leg and gave it a swift, hard kick.

  two

  Jenna

  The babysitter was late, Addie and Walsh were flying around the house in superhero capes yelling the Batman theme song—“Da-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Batman!”—and Jenna had just poured a mug of coffee when Walsh bumped into her from behind, spilling hot liquid down the front of her black Full Cup Coffee T-shirt.

  “Walsh, please!” She set the coffee mug down and pulled her damp shirt away from her skin.

  “Sorry, Mommy.” Walsh’s brown eyes were wide. She crept backward, then turned to run but stopped to grab a dish towel off the kitchen table first. “Here.” She dabbed at Jenna’s shirt with the towel, itself too damp to do the job.

  Jenna took the towel from Walsh and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. Walsh grinned and took off, her cape flying behind her.

  After wiping her shirt as well as she could—she’d be wearing an apron over it anyway—Jenna leaned against the counter and took a long swallow. She still didn’t understand how she could make coffee all day long, then drink the stuff at home. But at least she believed in what she was selling. Full Cup did make a good cup of coffee.

  She sighed. Where was Kendal? Her head hurt and she had ten minutes to get to the coffee shop, a drive that usually took twenty with traffic. She thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t opening today—as manager, she had the ability to pencil someone else into those early-morning slots—but it meant getting home later.

  As Addie and Walsh zoomed through the kitchen and wound around her legs like cats, part of her wanted to call in sick and stay home with the girls all day, but another part of her wanted to get in the car and drive away. Maybe not come back for a while.

  She squeezed her eyes closed and raked her hands through her hair. Then the doorbell rang and there was Kendal, her stand-in babysitter for the next two weeks until summer daycare began for the girls. With red, puffy eyes and a trembling voice, Kendal explained that she and her boyfriend had broken up the night before.