Peace in the Valley
an excerpt

PEACE IN THE VALLEY
by Kaye Dacus

Chapter One

Thin rays of sunlight filtered through the trees covering the eastern bluff on the other side of the valley. Fog wove through the branches and rolled over the promontory, but stopped halfway down the side like a tidal wave frozen in time.

Dawn had been Ruby’s favorite part of the day. Every morning—even those final few weeks when he’d had to carry her to her favorite chair on the porch—she’d greeted the sunrise with a Psalm and a hymn.

For the two years since she’d gone on to be with Jesus, Josiah had kept her habit.

“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth . . .’”

Sadie, the big black cat, jumped into his lap. Absently, Josiah stroked her fur as he recited the rest of Psalm 121, then quietly sang, “There is sunshine in my soul today . . .”

The stillness that reclaimed the atmosphere filled him with a melancholic peace. Around him, the hundred-year-old house creaked like an old man stretching after a long sleep. The sun drizzled its light onto the Wakefield House, nestled in the side of the western bluff, before slowly painting the town still snuggled in darkness in the valley below.

Boone’s Hollow, Tennessee. The backwards town he’d fled thirty years ago—escaping to college in Nashville. From there, he planned to see the world, experience all it had to offer—until God . . . and Ruby . . . got hold of him.

He lifted his eyes to the eastern bluff again. The fog slowly receded, revealing the gabled roofs of Boone College, nearly hidden by the thick forest.

Ruby’s desire to settle in one place, not too far from her people in Nashville, led them back to Boone’s Hollow, to this house—the house his great-grandfather had built by hand on the land that had been in their family since 1801.

Through the screen door, he heard the coffee maker kick on. Six thirty.

He gave Sadie one final pat. Used to this morning routine, the cat jumped down with a thud and went inside to sit at her bowl and cry for her breakfast.

Josiah stepped to the edge of the porch, pressed his thumb and middle finger to the corners of his mouth, and whistled. Two enormous forms materialized out of the far corner of the yard, loping toward him with lazy ease, while behind them, a smaller creature ran flat-out just to keep up.

The three dogs skidded to a stop and dropped to their haunches at the foot of the steps, looking up at their master in adoring expectation. They were a motley bunch: Missy, the tan cocker spaniel he’d gotten as a puppy for Ruby that last Christmas; Malachi, the coonhound—there had always been coonhounds at Wakefield House; and Zeke, a mongrel the size of a pony, who’d appeared on the back porch in a rainstorm, soaking wet and half starved, the day after Ruby’s funeral.

“Come and get your breakfast.”

The dogs gleefully crowded each other to be first through the door. In the utility room, Sadie eyed the dogs with contempt from the carpet-covered perch he’d built for her at Ruby’s direction.

He scooped kibble out of the large bin and into the three aluminum bowls. Sadie watched with bristle-tailed indignation as her canine siblings attacked their food with single-minded fervor.

Josiah chuckled and popped open the top of a can of cat food. Missy looked up from her breakfast and sneezed her disgust at the fishy odor that filled the tiny room.

By the time he finished scraping Sadie’s food out of the can, Zeke and Malachi had finished theirs. He let them back outside, checked the small flap in the bottom of the door to make sure it wasn’t blocked so Sadie and Missy could come and go as they pleased, then closed the door between the utility room and kitchen.

He poured the coffee into a large thermal mug and set the empty carafe on a cork trivet instead of back on the hotplate. Three replacement pots had taught him that trick. He shut off the coffee maker, flipped the kitchen light off, and left the house.

He walked down Granite Quarry Road toward town, the half mile passing quickly below the soles of his favorite hiking shoes. He paused at the edge of Piney Creek, just to take in the new sunlight dancing on the surface of the water as it tripped and stumbled over its rocky path. Birds chattered overhead, flying from treetop to treetop.

Another half mile brought him to the heart of Boone’s Hollow—Courthouse Square. All that remained of the original courthouse were stones half-buried in the ground marking its foundation in the middle of what was now the town Commons. The new courthouse—the one built in 1847—presided over the square from the south end, facing off against Town Hall on the north side.

He skirted the perimeter of the Commons and walked to a small, yellow clapboard house from which emanated the rich aroma of coffee and the undeniable yeastiness of fresh baked-goods.

“Mornin’, Brother Josiah.”

He stepped up to the front porch of the PERK UP & ARISE COFFEE SHOP & BAKERY. “Good morning, Reverend Hudson.” Josiah paused beside the rocking chair where the pastor of First Baptist Church sat, drinking coffee from a #1 Dad emblazoned mug and reading the newspaper—yesterday’s from Nashville.

“’Pears it’ll be another hot one today.”

Josiah squinted over his shoulder at the now-bright sky. “Yes, sir, it does appear so. Hard to believe it’s this hot in March. I expect we’ll be getting some heavy weather this spring.”

“Has Bob heard anything else about the part for your air conditioner?”

“He told me yesterday that his supplier in Dickson said the part will take a few weeks to come in.”

“Now, that’s a shame.” Reverend Hudson sipped his coffee. “But y’all are welcome to continue meeting in our fellowship hall as long as you need it.”

“I—we appreciate that.”

Josiah exchanged pleasantries with the few other customers enjoying the rocking chairs. The bell on the door announced his entrance. The two front rooms of the old house featured small café tables and a variety of patrons breakfasting on everything from pastries to quiche.

His stomach growled. He passed through, speaking to everyone, to what had originally been the home’s dining room. Now, a large glass case displayed all of the pastries, breads, and muffins baked that morning; a self-service coffee bar; and the cashier behind whom hung a chalkboard with the day’s breakfast special—Spanish-style Frittatas—scrawled in a flowing script.

“Good morning, Brother Josiah.” Kirsten Jacobs, the owner of Perk Up, greeted him from the pastry counter. “Your usual?”

He stopped at the coffee station. “Yes, please.” He swigged the last swallow of his home brew and refilled his thermal mug with Columbian Supreme. He met Kirsten at the register.

“Two sixty-two.”

He dropped the change from his three dollars into the tips jar. “How’s your family?” He took the brown sack she handed across the counter.

“Everyone’s fine, thanks. I talked to my mom and sister on the phone yesterday. They’re planning the Easter egg hunt at their church for next week, so they’re pretty busy. Bryan’s busy working, as usual.”

“Bryan’s working? During spring break?”

“He’s consulting for an advertising agency in Nashville.”

“Oh, so he won’t be here for the town meeting tonight? I know how much effort he’s put into ideas for the bicentennial celebration.”

“He’ll be back in time. He’s not staying in Nashville, just driving into town each day—he still has his midterm exams to grade and post. But he thinks maybe—” A furtive expression entered the young woman’s eyes. “Brother Josiah, what’s made you stay here all these years?”

Understanding, tinged with sadness, washed over him. “This is the place where my roots are, Kirsten. I grew up here—on the land that’s been in my family more than two hundred years.”

“But so many people have left.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Bryan said enrollment at the college has been going down. He says . . . he says he’s afraid Boone’s Hollow is dying.”

--

Dying.

Josiah rocked slowly, occasionally raising his hand to wave as community members walked or drove by on their way to work or other tasks.

Boone’s Hollow is dying.

Death—Josiah dealt with death, both physical and spiritual, on a regular basis as a pastor. In his small congregation at Mt. Zion Church, most of the members were older—elderly, even—and the city cemetery had recently expanded into the adjacent lot to receive those who had passed away.

With the average age of the population increasing every year, Boone’s Hollow was indeed reaching the point of decline by the death of its citizenship.

But physical death wasn’t the only problem. Boone’s Hollow was dying spiritually. In a town of fewer than four thousand souls with twelve churches and an interdenominational Christian college, those living in the valley had become complacent, apathetic, about their spiritual welfare. Few, if any, in town would not profess to being Christians. But church attendance was lackluster and Christian ministry paid lip-service only.

Many saw the upcoming bicentennial as the opportunity to reinvigorate the populace and create tourism interest in Boone’s Hollow.

What they really needed was a revival.

A sharp-but-low whistle caught his attention.

“Don’t often see cars like that in these parts.” Earl, who owned the auto-body-and-repair shop stood in the doorway.

Josiah followed his line of sight. A sleek, black, foreign car with a Georgia license plate slipped into a parking space along the Commons, like a panther settling in for a snooze. A woman just as sleek and languidly feline climbed out.

Silence settled over the people on Perk Up’s front porch. The formerly incessant creak of rocking chairs ceased. One didn’t often see women like that in these parts, either.

* * *

Mia pushed her sunglasses up to the top of her head and glanced around the square. Dr. Davidson hadn’t lied about this being a small, old-fashioned town. Her skin crawled with the sensation of being watched. She slowly turned to face the small, borderline-dilapidated house bearing a carved, painted sign proudly displaying the name PERK UP & ARISE COFFEE SHOP & BAKERY.

Coffee! She’d left the Lowe’s Vanderbilt Hotel in Nashville during the height of morning rush hour, and the drive-thru line at the Starbucks on West End Avenue had been backed up into the street. In the hour since then, she hadn’t seen anything but tiny backwoods towns—and no place likely to know what a latte was.

Stop it.

She’d agreed to come here, to leave Atlanta, to try to stop thinking like that. To simplify. To renew her spirit.

She pasted on the smile she’d perfected over years of public appearances, and made her way across the street to the white picket fence separating the sidewalk from the small front yard of the coffeehouse.

Why was everyone staring at her? Did they recognize her?

From the rocking chair to the left of the steps, a distinguished African American man stood—and kept right on standing until he reached a height that must be at least six foot five. The hint of silver in his hair and few lines around his eyes made her estimate his age to be not much older than her own forty-four years—though no one ever believed her when she told them her real age.

He moved toward her and extended his lion’s paw–sized hand. “Good mornin’. Welcome to Boone’s Hollow. I’m Josiah Wakefield.”

Her hand looked so small when she placed it in his. “Thank you. I’m Charmianne Hebert.”

The rough-looking man standing in the door, allowing the air conditioning from inside to spill out, chuckled. “A-bear? And what kind of bear would that be?”

Josiah Wakefield shot a warning look at the man, then turned back to Mia with a warm smile. “Don’t mind Earl. He doesn’t mean any harm. Hebert? That’s Cajun, isn’t it?”

Educated, well mannered. This man wasn’t from around here. “Yes, it is, Mr. Wakefield. I’m originally from Louisiana, though I’ve lived in Atlanta for the last fifteen years.”

“Do you still have family in Louisiana?”

“No. My parents moved to Santa Fe several years ago.” She tuned out the stares from the other people on the porch and focused on the one who could carry on a decent conversation—stop that kind of thinking! “And where are you from, Mr. Wakefield?”

“Please, it’s just Josiah—or Brother Josiah, is what most folk around here call me. I was born in that clinic across the way, and raised right there.” He pointed toward the farm-dotted hill the porch faced.

Open mouth, insert foot.

“Earl, why are you letting all the flies in—oh.” A young woman came to an abrupt stop halfway through the motion of pushing Earl out the door. She wiped her hands on her black apron and stepped out onto the porch. “Hi, I’m Kirsten Jacobs. Come in, come in. Have you had breakfast? Can I offer you some coffee?”

Thanking her lucky stars for a means of escape, Mia allowed Kirsten Jacobs to escort her into the converted house. The rich smell of coffee and baked goods wrapped Mia in its warm embrace. She could get used to Perk Up & Arise.

“The regular coffees are here, the flavored brews are there.” Kirsten indicated eight pump-top carafes, each with a white tent-card printed with the flavor in front of it.

Well, it was better than nothing—

“And I’ve got an espresso machine back here, if you prefer a specialty coffee.”

“Kirsten, I believe I love you.”

The tall, Germanic-looking woman blushed. Large boned and solid, Kirsten Jacobs’ broad face wasn’t beautiful, but held a graceful charm that could be called pretty—and her complexion! Mia had once described a character as having a peaches-and-cream complexion, which her editor had immediately slashed through with a red pen and written so cliché beside in the margin. But even in her own mind, she’d only had a vague idea of what the description really meant. It meant the creamy perfection and peach glow of Kirsten Jacobs’ cheeks.

Kirsten handed her a laminated menu. “What’ll it be?”

Mia read through the flavors and choices. “A non-fat caramel hazelnut latte, please.”

The loud grinding and hissing of the machine filled the room and made Mia feel right at home. Once the noise stopped, she accepted the purple ceramic latte mug, sipped, closed her eyes, and sighed with satisfaction. “I can honestly tell you—I did not expect to find something like this here.”

“You mean in the backcountry of Tennessee?” Kirsten laughed. “There wasn’t—until I opened this place two years ago. It was an immediate hit with the college students, but it took the town a while longer to warm up to it. Well, not everyone’s quite warmed up to it yet.”

“Your accent—Chicago, right?”

Kirsten’s pale eyebrows raised in surprise. “Most people just ask me where up North I’m from.”

“Just like most people up North can’t distinguish a Louisianan from a Georgian.”

“I could tell you aren’t from around ‘these parts,’ as they say here. But at least you sound more like them than I ever will.” The younger woman dropped her gaze to the towel in her hand she swirled in a slow circle on the glass pastry display case.

“Still treat you like an outsider?”

Kirsten nodded without looking up. “It’s been three years since my husband moved us here to teach at the college, and although they’re more than happy to eat here and buy bread and pastries from me, they still treat me like thet furriner.” She glanced around the room, then leaned closer. “Especially Mrs. Reese, who owns the Café across the street, since a lot of people who used to be her regulars now come over here for their breakfast before work.”

Mia patted her hand. “Well, now I’m the newcomer—the foreigner—and even though I won’t be trying, I’m sure I’ll step on a lot of toes. Any day now, you’ll start to notice a difference in how they treat you.”

A smile started to creep into the corners of Kirsten’s lips. “Thanks . . .” She blushed again. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.”

“Charmianne Hebert.”

“A-bear . . . H-e-b-e-r-t?”

“That’s right.” Mia’s stomach tightened.

Kirsten’s face lit up. “I can’t believe it! I knew I recognized you from your dust jacket photos. You’re my favorite author—I have all your books! What on earth are you doing in Boone’s Hollow?”