Firefly Southern Fiction is an imprint of LPCBooks a division of Iron Stream Media 100 Missionary Ridge, Birmingham, AL 35242 ShopLPC.com Copyright © 2021 by Donna Mumma All rights reserved. First printing 2021. Printed in the United States of America Cover design by Elaina Lee No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Iron Stream Media serves its authors as they express their views, which may not express the views of the publisher. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only. Library of Congress Control Number: 2021936146 ISBN-13: 978-1-64526-285-5 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64526-286-2
Praise for Fresh scars A powerful story about the wounds we carry, and the courage it takes to let them go. ~ Zena Dell Lowe The Storytellers Mission Asia and Ivy’s story broke my heart, had me rooting for them, then wanting to protect them—all in the space of the first chapters. Donna Mumma’s debut novel forces us to look at the possible long-term effects of childhood wounds, then give ourselves grace and time to heal, even if that healing comes in baby steps. ~ Shellie Arnold Author of The Barn Church Series Donna Mumma’s debut novel, Fresh Scars, is a moving and poignant tale that shows just how strong the human spirit can be. This one touches all the emotions, and readers may very well find the courage to face a few of their own difficulties after reading it! Don’t miss this well-crafted and redemptive story! ~ Jennifer Uhlarik 2020 Will Rogers Medallion Award Finalist Sand Creek Serenade Fresh Scars immerses readers in the skin of characters who battle the trauma of childhood abuse and discover the spiritual strength to overcome it. Author Donna Mumma crafts an authentic depiction of anxiety, sibling rivalry among survivors, and the triggers which draw each sister back to relive the past. The tangles of psychological realism weave themselves around a compelling mystery while the drama proves equally captivating. I felt entwined with the characters until reaching the perfect and satisfying ending. I couldn’t recommend Mumma’s novel more highly. ~ Tina Yeager LMHC, Life Coach, Author, Speaker, and Host of the Flourish-Meant Podcast
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Donna Mumma takes readers on a thought-provoking journey into the dynamics of family history. Anyone with a long and difficult history with parents and siblings and the subsequent, “you musts” of settling an estate will relate to Fresh Scars. ~ James Cressler Author of Demimonde and Diary of an Oak Tree
acknowledgments M me if a person had no dreams, they had nothing. This book is the culmination of a crowd of people in my life who loved me enough to believe in my dreams. I first want to thank my parents, John and Shirley Taylor. Through them I learned to love God, family, friends and neighbors, work hard, and adore books. They gave me the gift of growing up in a world filled with master storytellers who taught a little girl’s imagination how to soar. Writers need a great community behind them, and I am blessed with one of the best. Thank you, Word Weavers Tampa, for your abundant grace as you read all of my re-writes and restarts. You took my rough drafts and polished them until they shined. Tina Yeager, thank you for your undying encouragement and unending patience as you read through multiple drafts of this book. Your counselor’s heart and fantastic writing ability helped me fill this story with truth and make my characters breathe. Sharron Cosby, you loved this story from the first page and never let me forget it. Thanks for sharing your writing talents, professional knowledge and for pushing me to the finish line. A good friend loveth well. Jan Powell, you reign as the world’s best accountability partner. You never ceased to amaze me with your uncanny sense of knowing when I needed a phone call. You are a perfect combination of dear friend, editor, encourager, and writer. Thanks for caring enough to always give me the unbridled truth when something was just plain bad. And for having the remedy to fix it. I needed you in my corner. Crystal Storms, thanks for your patience in teaching me all about social media and helping me set up my marketing tools. You’ve encouraged me not to be so afraid of my computer. I still need to work on that.
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Linda Glaz, my fabulous agent and a new writer’s best friend. Thanks for taking a second look and giving me a chance to realize this dream. Shellie Arnold, my mentor and friend, you taught me how to dig deep and search for the truth that needed to shout from every page. Thanks for helping me learn to not just put down words, but truly write. Jessica Everson, thanks for telling me how much you loved this story while you cleaned up my manuscript. It made my day every time you sent back your edits. You have a magic touch. To Eva Marie Everson. I walked into your fiction practicum knowing nothing, but you believed I could do this. You continue to teach me craft, make my words sing from the page, and set my writer’s soul free. I am humbled to call you my editor, mentor, and friend. Eva Marie, the team at Firefly Southern Fiction and Iron Stream Media, thank you for giving me this opportunity. You gave me a light to hold onto during a long, dark year. To Denise. You never stopped cheering and staying interested in my writing journey. Thanks from the bottom of my orange and blue heart. Buckman rules! To David, John Patrick, and Daniel. You hold my heart and are my forever favorites. There are many others that I’ve not listed. You know who you are, know you are loved. And lastly, I thank God for loving me more than I could ever fathom and helping me understand the true meaning of forgiveness.
dedication To David You believed
Chapter 1 L deserve fiery deaths for the trouble they bring. Asia Butler read her landlord’s one-paragraph message again, each word twisting her gut into knots. She yanked an antibacterial wipe from the package in her pocket and washed her hands. The attack was coming. Breathe … relax … breathe. Her streak of thirty-three days free from panic attacks stood in jeopardy. She couldn’t ruin her accomplishments, especially on an odd-numbered day. Breathe … Relax … According to the letter, her landlord was moving to Florida and selling the townhome. Her home. She had sixty days to make an offer or move. Asking price was one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars, OBO, he’d said. Student loans, an aging car, and therapy with Dr. Prescott reduced her best offer to maybe ten thousand dollars. She threw the used wipe away and scanned her bedroom. Cleaning solutions and twin boxes of latex-free gloves sat in order from smallest to largest. Asia bent over, inhaled the scent emanating from her freshly dusted nightstand. Lemon. The smell of peace and wooden church pews. Safety. Moving to Florida? Florida was a rotten place to live and why anyone willingly moved there defied the mind. Nothing compared to her Tennessee sunsets. Yellow-pink skies, a glowing orange orb dipping beneath the scalloped horizon. Her heart-roots had dug deep 1
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into this neighborhood. The only other townhomes or condos her budget welcomed were of a lower quality. None offered this view. And, in moving, she’d lose her neighbor, Russ. Her mind switched to images of the sun baking Florida’s flatpine and oak-dotted terrain, bathing everything in choking humidity. A chill prickled her arms. I’m fine, I’m fine. She inched closer to her window, checked her car’s alignment in her assigned spot. Not too far forward with plenty of room for the walkway. Russ pulled in beside her, his blue truck almost filling his parking space’s footprint. The lowering sun glinted off the hood, sparkled in the droplets dotting the surface. He must have just come from the car wash. She checked her own vehicle. No sunglow on its surface. She pulled her phone from her pocket, scanned her daily calendar, and added wash car to Saturday’s to-do list. Russ happened to see her and waved as he hurried to his front door. She waved back. Her face grew warm as she reached in her pocket and stroked the card he’d given her. “Made this for you.” Russ had handed her the note card while they sat on her couch watching college football. “I picked yellow because it’s bright and cheery. I also laminated it, so you can wipe it clean.” He pointed to the large, black writing on its front. “Read it.” The fear of man brings a snare; whoever trusts in the Lord is kept safe. God could help with conquering her fears, he’d said. She’d heard the same sermons in church and read the Bible passages about fear multiple times. Her pastor said God would heal her. Her therapist, Dr. Prescott, agreed. But reality ambushed her. She hung at the end of her mental rope, grasping fragile strands while her childhood memories sawed away her sanity one thread at a time. Her students deserved a stable teacher, so she enlisted God and Dr. Prescott in the fight. And still she walked the tightrope between staying sane or going crazy. Breathe … relax … breathe … Asia grabbed a handful of wipes from the package and washed her 2
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face. Twice. She inhaled the lemony scent, then threw the wipes away in her bathroom’s trash can. Snapshots of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, an alligator swimming through a creek in triangular ripples, and turtles sunbathing together on a log clicked through a mental slideshow. Florida. Again. She shook the pictures away. Her students struggled with developmental delays, physical or emotional handicaps, and learned to conquer their challenges. She should too. And focus on their work tonight. Asia padded in sock feet to retrieve her backpack from the closet. On the way to her desk, her temples tingled. And now a migraine threatened? She went to the bathroom and wet her hands with cold water. Relax. She’d stood like this once before in a bus station bathroom strewn with filthy paper towels. The stench from the unflushed toilets had curled her tongue into a gag. There she’d stared into a cloudy mirror and rinsed away blood from a cut under her left eye. If someone looked closely enough, they could spy the scar. Asia jerked down her hands. Don’t. She patted her face dry with a towel. Twice. She fixed her smeared mascara. Work. Don’t think. Once settled at her desk in the far corner of her bedroom, she put on her glasses and pulled students’ papers from her backpack. Her phone buzzed. What now? She checked her phone. Russ Matthews. He was probably calling about fixing the light by her front door. She texted her response. Grading papers. Talk tomorrow? Russ’s answer dinged. Perfect. Thank goodness Russ understood. Always. She slid a paper from the folder, uncapped her blue pen, and read until her doorbell rang followed by four pounding knocks. “Can’t a body have a quiet Friday evening?” she argued aloud as she recapped 3
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her pen. Asia checked her watch. Six thirty. Who’d come by at the supper hour? The knocking grew louder. She hurried down the stairs, then peered out the peephole and saw a woman dressed in an express messenger’s uniform outside her front door. She released the lock and cracked the door open. The young woman held out a large envelope. “Delivery.” Asia stepped outside. “From whom?” The woman lifted one shoulder. “It’s addressed to Asia Butler. That you?” “Yes.” “Then it’s yours. Sign here.” She tapped a rectangle at the base of the electronic box in her hand. Asia complied, took the envelope. “Thank you.” The young woman stepped from the stoop. “Have a nice evening.” She trotted off to her delivery truck, her red ponytail swishing across her back. Back in the house, Asia read the sender’s address on the envelope as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. Janice M. Browne PA, Attorney at Law 1171 CR 470 Emerson, FL 33232 Emerson. Her birthplace. An attorney from her birthplace. Her knees buckled as if unhinged. She dropped to her bed, gripped her comforter until the soft folds puffed between her fingers. Breathe … relax … breathe … Cotton boll dryness swelled in her throat. Her bedside clock switched to six forty-five. She ripped the envelope’s cardboard tab and slid a single sheet of thick, linen stationery from within. Janice M. Browne’s name emblazoned the top in dark crimson letters. Asia’s hands trembled as she read further. My Dear Daughters, I am in the hospital with little time left here with you. 4
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Since you chose not to visit me through the years, I have chosen to force the opportunity to gather my sweet girls together one last time to fulfill my final wishes. You may decide once again to walk away from me, but you do so to your detriment. Below are required tasks you must complete to receive a gift my attorney is holding for you. You may each claim $250,000 if all the items below are completed to my attorney’s, Ms. Browne’s, satisfaction. You must: Clean out our house. You must discard all personal property, paperwork, and furnishings. If you find anything you desire, it is yours to take. I have granted you 30 days to complete this task. Go even one minute past midnight of the deadline, which will be set by Ms. Browne, and you forfeit your claim to the money. Allow Ms. Browne to periodically check your progress. Should you not accept this challenge, the funds will revert to the residuary of my estate and will be designated to beneficiaries of my choosing. You will receive nothing from my estate or me. You must complete these tasks together, as a unit. If one sister refuses, neither of you will receive anything. It is my fondest dream you will both carry out Mommy’s wishes. Who better to put to rest the life I carefully crafted than my dearest treasures? None but you my precious girls. Signature lines for Asia and her older sister Ivy came next on the page, each ending with boxes to check. ACCEPT or DENY. The bottom of the page bore a time and date designated for a mandatory meeting with Ms. Browne if Asia and Ivy agreed to Veronica’s conditions. A contact number and an offer to text Ms. Browne in the off hours rounded out the letter’s message. The meeting date was set for the upcoming Monday at 9 a.m. How had they found her? She regarded her pasty reflection staring from the Cheval mirror by her bed. Asia curled a tendril of blonde hair behind her ear, then fluffed it back in place. Styling her hair away from her face accentuated her pointy chin and made her eyes appear too close together. She’d 5
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inherited the same blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes as Ivy, but missed out on the high cheek bones, straight nose, and sculpted jawline that made her sister a head-turning beauty. Asia hugged her middle. She hadn’t spoken to Ivy in fifteen years. Each heartbeat knifed through her chest. Each breath grew shallower. Florida, and all that she’d run from, had found her. She dropped the letter on the bed. I’m in Tennessee. I’m in my home. I’m safe. But for how long? She was going to lose her home. To save it she’d have to go back to Florida. Face Ivy. And Veronica. Asia grabbed the bedpost as the world swirled around her. Breathe … Relax … Breathe …
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