Going to the Water Ann Hite
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 Ann Hite 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: 2021942986 ISBN-13: 978-1-64526-287-9 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64526-288-6
Praise for GoinG to the Water Ann Hite knows how to wrangle a heart and heal it again. Her beautiful words transport us across time and space, once again proving her worth as a storyteller. Readers will enjoy this complex tale that examines both the darkness and the light. And in the end, they’ll want to fight the good fight. ~ Julie Cantrell New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of Perennials Ann Hite's masterful storytelling is on full display in this vivid whirlwind of a read. She had me in the palm of her hand through all the twists and turns. Compelling and atmospheric. ~ Lynn Cullen Bestselling author of Mrs. Poe and The Sisters of Summit Avenue A vivid, captivating novel that unfolds with intrigue and nuance, Going to the Water has all the elements you'd hope for in a multi-layered, Southern-set story: complicated family ties, misunderstanding and secrets, a mysterious past that haunts, spunky characters with pitchperfect vernacular and their own agendas, and a pithy, unpredictable plot in a lush setting that delightfully exemplifies the South as place. ~ Claire Fullerton Multiple award-winning author of Mourning Dove and Little Tea
acknowledgments must thank my husband and daughter, Jack and Ella Hite, who lived in the same house with me while I wrote and rewrote Going to the Water. Without my awesome editor, Eva Marie Everson, this novel would not exist in this form. Her artful attention to detail helped me see where the story needed to grow. Thank you to Karen Lynn Nolan for making me aware of Firefly Southern Fiction. The experience with this publisher has been as awesome as she suggested. To my Fiction Writing Master Class for encouraging me to step out of my comfort zone of writing historical fiction. Teachers do learn from their students. To my daughters and stepson and grandkids, who all grew six years older through this process. It is hard to have a writer in the family sometimes. A personal nod to a friend from way back in junior high, my own personal Dar. She’s had a rough road to travel of late, but one wouldn’t know it by talking with her. Reading is in her blood. And most of all I want to say a hearty thanks to my readers who have stuck with me through every book I’ve published. I wouldn’t be in this business without you.
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dedication To those of us who believe rivers are God’s gift to heal and nurture this awesome earth, and the souls that wander its lands.
Chapter 1
Isla he night I began to live my own ghost story—only I had no idea I had stepped into the Neverland between reality and fantasy, the scary place of oily smoke and found treasure, family legend and factual history—I sat in the large pristine house, planning the herb garden I would put in the next week. I never thought I would face my worst fear and break a promise I had kept for seventeen years. Mama always said our lives were ghost stories, metaphors to hide the truth behind. I was nearly thirty-two—well that’s a lie; I was almost thirty-six—when I finally came to understand what Mama meant. That she wasn’t talking about real ghosts at all, even though we had our share of those. Mama meant something much deeper, less tangible, more spiritual. I think she was talking about our souls. The essence that makes us who we are, the spark of life, the real truth. In a matter of five minutes a woman’s whole world can spin on its axis and begin rotating in a different direction. It was nine o’clock on an unseasonably hot Friday night in late April when the phone rang and caused me to jump and drop my cup of Russian tea, breaking my favorite mug. “Shoot.” The number on caller ID wasn’t familiar. Scott was out drinking like he did most nights. We had a deal: I pretended not to notice his faults, drinking being one of them, and he pretended I didn’t exist on most days, allowing me to do whatever I felt like with his money. Yes, I was that shallow. Settling for a life that helped me fit in and turned me into this new person. Leaving my family legacy behind. The arrangement was very satisfactory.
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There was no telling what Scott had gotten himself into. Probably jail or some disgruntled husband had murdered him. “Hello.” The brown liquid spread across the white tile floor in the sunroom, and I hurried to the kitchen for a towel. “Izzie, is that you?” A recognition of the man’s voice slid through my memory, but no one called me Izzie anymore, except Scott. “This is Isla Weehunt.” A pause, then a breath, as if the man was put out with my answer. A siren wailed to a stop on his end of the line, causing me to pull the phone from my ear. “Izzie, are you there?” “Yes.” “This is Stuart Collins from Nantahala. We went to school together. I’m the fire chief and arson investigator here now. You do remember your hometown?” I stood in the kitchen with a dish towel in my hand. Well, sissy, little Stuart had grown up and got a mouth on him. “There’s no need to take that tone. I go by Isla, have for most of my adult life.” It had been exactly seventeen years since I had been in Nantahala. A woman doesn’t forget the day she decides never to go home again. The tea edged its way to the pure white baseboards. Lord, cleaning up white tile would take forever. The stuff would stick to the bottom of my shoes, no matter how many times I cleaned the spot. “What is this call about?” I sounded testy, but who cared. I threw the towel on the floor to soak up the tea. “We have a problem here.” “We? What do you mean?” This had to be about my family. I loved Mama. That deep-down kind of love that’s not a bit healthy for any of the parties involved. I couldn’t shake her no matter how I tried to convince myself of her faults; even sixty miles didn’t make a difference. I also hated her. The two feelings were downright confusing at times. Hate and love went together even if I didn’t want to admit they did. I clung to the hate. See, the monster part of Mama was much easier to deal with than compassion and fragile vulnerability. And after all I had been through with her, choosing to hate came natural. 2
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“Your mama’s house …” Stuart grew quiet for a minute. My promise to stay away from Nantahala had held fast, even when Mama had to be placed in assisted living a few years before because she tried to shoot the tax assessor as he walked her property, taking photos. That’s when the law decided they couldn’t look the other way any longer. Mama had done many odd things in her life, but the county finally sat up and took notice. When Stuart spoke again, it was with a softer tone. “Velvet is dead.” His words sat in the air like a fragile bubble ready to pop and disappear. As a kid, I would submerge my whole body under the hot water in our cast-iron, claw-foot tub. The world would turn into a muffled roar. At the moment Stuart spoke, the same sound began at the base of my skull and worked its way over the top of my head. I had to get off the phone. “Izzie? Izzie, are you still there?” Hanging up would be as simple as pushing the button on the portable phone. “How?” I whispered. “The house is still burning, but I’m pretty sure Velvet is in there. Her car, what’s left of it, is parked right out front. She has to be in there.” Silence. Long strung-out silence. The fallout of the nuclear bomb that had waited far too long to detonate. Mama—when she was younger—said a woman on the run ought to keep a lookout over her shoulder. She also said a girl shouldn’t get so big for her pants that she outgrew her history. But some ancestral memories deserved to be abandoned. My running had been so intense my breath caught in my ribs as a permanent sharp pain on most days. The Leech legacy was left in the dust. And there were losses. Lots of them. To leave for good, I had to drown my dreams in the Nantahala River that snaked through the gorge. This meant, especially, my writing. Lord only knew what would go on paper if I started. Talk about World War III. I had been a good writer back then. Real good. Mama said—always with a sharp edge to her words—I got my talent from Iris Harris, my grandmother, a famous writer when women of means were nothing but a shiny 3
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trinket on their husbands’ pocket-watch chains. “I’m sorry I told you like that.” Stuart took a breath. If I remembered correctly, he had been a real pain in the butt, following me around school like I would ever pay attention to him. And hadn’t he begun hanging around Velvet while I was at college? She was four years younger. Of course, guys of all ages flocked around Velvet. Always had. It was her pitfall, attracting attention from the wrong men. “I’m not good at this stuff, Izzie. Being kind, breaking news. I need a next of kin out here.” “What about the boy? Was he in the house too?” The words were pieces of bitter chocolate in my mouth. “The boy, your nephew, is a minor. I’m not sure if he’s in there or not. There is no way to tell until I can get closer. Policy says I need an adult. You’re the only reliable next of kin. I know Velvet and you weren’t close.” A hard laugh bubbled out of my chest like the burning fizz in a can of soda. “I would say you got that right, Stuart. You got that one fact dead right. I haven’t spoken to my sister since I left Nantahala.” “Izzie, will you come?” Stuart asked with the patience of Job. The word no swirled through my fast-moving thoughts. No. No. No. I can’t go back to that place. The girl I had been died long ago. No. “Yes, but against my better judgment. I’ll see you as soon as I can.” And there it was, a betrayal against myself.
The smell of rosemary caught in the wind and wrapped around me as I climbed into my SUV. Rosemary, an herb, represented memories. And the Lord only knew all the memories banging around in my head. The last time I saw Velvet was in Nantahala, and the boy, my nephew, had been born on the living room floor of Mama’s small five-room house. I was there to tell Mama I was marrying Scott, that I was leaving the gorge for good. Mama was all set to talk me out of becoming part of the Weehunts. This baffled me because the Weehunts were from old 4
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money from Georgia. “I have to tell you a story, and you will not want to marry Scott Weehunt when you hear it. You will wait for better.” But I never got the chance to hear her elaborate tale because Velvet busted through the door, screaming like she was dying. She had hidden her condition for the whole nine months. Her water broke before emergency could even be called. I got caught up in the drama of childbirth, and before I knew what had happened a baby boy was in my hands. He was quiet and limp. My heart pounded so loud I was sure Mama could hear it. “Do something, Izzie,” Mama had cried. I slapped the baby on the bottom like I’d seen on some television show. A loud cry came from his little lungs as he breathed in air. His fists balled, ready for a fight, as if he knew what life held for him. Velvet had given Mama a boy, the only grandchild she would ever know. Not that I didn’t want children, but life ended up throwing me a sideways curve. I couldn’t have children with Scott. This was probably a good thing, seeing the road he walked down. Mama cut the cord with her sewing scissors, tied it off with thread, and cradled the boy close to her, singing to him. No reason to tell me a story. No need to care whether I stayed or left. A crack had formed inside my heart. Because deep down I knew the story she wanted to pass to me. I knew she had been telling it to me for a while. I decided right there, with my hands covered in blood and birthing fluids, I had to save my life and walk away, never looking back. That minute. There was no time to wait for some big wedding. I calmly washed my hands in the kitchen sink and slid out the door without anyone noticing or caring.
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