Lily of the Springs (48 page)

Fast-forward to the 1980’s. Several momentous things happened that reminded Carole that she
did
have a talent for writing. She went back to college and did well in a creative writing course. This inspired her to start writing a romance novel about a race car driver (of course) and a news reporter. It never got published, but writing it did the job of getting her creative juices flowing again. And then…
drum roll
…something
really
exciting happened. Carole met Princess Di at Andrews Air Force Base. She hadn’t wanted to get up early that morning to go to the flight line to see the royal couple arrive, but her friend, Diana, talked her into it. Who knew that meeting would be the start of a real writing career? Carole wrote about the encounter, and months later, the article appeared in the military magazine,
Family
, earning her $100. (And no, she didn’t frame it; she spent it.)

Thus, ambition was born. Carole began to get published on a fairly regular basis—and began collecting
a lot
of rejections along the way. This time, though, she didn’t let them deter her. Although she was doing well in publishing short fiction and articles, earning credits in magazines such as
Woman's World
,
Endless Vacation
and
The Washington Post
—(even publishing a story about how she met her husband in
Chicken Soup for the Couples’ Soul)
, her dream to publish a novel remained elusive for 13 long years.

But finally, in February, 1998, she got the call she’d been fantasizing about from her agent, and a year later, her first novel, BORDER CROSSINGS, hit the shelves, earning glowing reviews and awards such as a 2000 RITA Award nominee for Best Romantic Suspense and Best First Book and a nominee for the 2000 Virginia Literary Award in Fiction. (This book will be reissued in January 2012; read the excerpt on page 451.) Six more novels followed, including the one you just read—LILY OF THE SPRINGS.

Carole is presently at work on a 7
^th
novel, INCENSE & PEPPERMINTS, the story of a combat nurse in Vietnam, and hopes to have it out sometime in 2012.

She lives in Northern Virginia with the most wonderful man in the world, Frank, her husband of 38 years, and is blessed to be the mom of a talented daughter, Leah, also a writer, and a fantastic son, Stephen, and grandma to the two most beautiful boys in the world, Luke, 3, and Zealand, 2.

A note from Carole Bellacera

I lost my mother to non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in December 1998, just five months before my first novel was published. She’d been my cheerleader since those early days of writing novels in loose-leaf notebooks. In fact, she’d bought me my first typewriter, a Smith-Corona. Even now, I can close my eyes, and smell the ink from that typewriter—it brings back such vivid memories of creativity and hopes for realizing big dreams. But most of all, the remembered scent of that typewriter reminds me of Mommy.

She was too young to die. She’d been such a vibrant part of my life—always loving and vivacious. My friends in high school adored her because she always acted like one of the girls. Even when she became a grandma to my two kids, she’d take them to a water park and go down the slides with them, acting for all the world like she was 12 herself.

All through my years of being a struggling writer, she was there to give me encouragement, to bolster me up when I was down, to encourage me to keep trying and not let those rejections keep me from going after my dream. She was the first person I called when I got “the call” from my agent about BORDER CROSSINGS. It broke my heart that she never got to see that first published novel. She’d been diagnosed in 1993, and towards the end of 1998, the disease took a turn for the worst. But at least she knew I’d dedicated the book to her. I guess somewhere deep inside, I knew she might not make it to hold the book in her hands, so I told her. I’m glad I did.

Since she’s been gone, I’ve done a lot of thinking about her and the 63 years she lived on this earth. I knew bits and pieces of her past—stories she’d told me from her high school days and what it was like growing up in rural Kentucky in the late 40’s and early 50’s. From looking at her high school yearbooks, I got the impression she’d been a popular girl. (Something I couldn’t identify with because I was never popular in school.) Mommy could’ve had her pick of the boys, but somehow, she ended up with my father—a decent man now, of course—but as a teenager and young man, not exactly what you’d call the all-American, wholesome boy next door. Their marriage was rocky, to say the least, and yet, lasted a good 20 years before they finally divorced. Still, despite all the arguments, the tension-filled silences, the less than stellar behavior, I have no doubt that my father was the love of my mother’s life. In one of our last conversations in the hospital, she pretty much admitted that.

Still…I wondered…what would her life had been like if she’d made different choices? Thus, LILY OF THE SPRINGS, was born. Through it, I wanted to give my mother the happy ending she never got in real life. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it.

An excerpt from the reissue of SPOTLIGHT, Carole’s second award-winning novel.

Prologue

January 30, 1972

Derry, Northern Ireland

R
ain misted the street as ten-year-old Devin O'Keefe pushed his way through the throng. In his right hand he carried an unwieldy sign that had been clumsily painted with five words: NO INTERNMENT. RELEASE CONOR O'KEEFE. It was a sentiment he believed with all his young heart, but he was tired and the sign had grown heavy since he'd joined the anti-internment march several kilometers out of town. They'd reached the middle of the Bogside, the Catholic ghetto where no sane Protestant dared venture for fear of becoming a target in the gunsights of the Provisional IRA.

As the marchers swept past the expressionless British soldiers dressed in battle fatigues and armed with Enfields, a new spirit of camaraderie seemed to pass through the crowd. Devin felt it. It was like an invisible current of electricity surging from one marcher to the next.
Ob, how proud Da would be if he could see me now!

But his father wouldn't be seeing any of this. He'd been lifted by the Brits five months ago and locked up in the H-Blocks, the jail for political prisoners.

Along both sides of the road, Irish Catholics stood in the rain and cheered the crowd, some of them joining the march. Even priests and nuns were among the throng, many of them carrying banners like Devin's. A few faces along the roadside were implacable, some apprehensive, but most were jubilant. In America, Martin Luther King, Jr., had gathered blacks and whites alike to march upon Washington. Now, the Irish Catholics were doing the same, marching to Deny to win freedom for the oppressed.

Devin stood on tiptoe, searching the crowd for his brother, Glen, and his friend Pearse. His sign brushed a matronly woman's beehive.

She glowered at him. "Watch where you be goin', laddie." She smelled of cheap perfume and sour body odor.

"Sorry, mum. Excuse me, I must get through." He'd spied the black head of Glen up ahead. "Wait up, Glen!" Eagerly, he jostled his way through the crowd. His sixteen-year-old brother hadn't wanted him to tag along today, but Devin was determined to be a part of this historical march for freedom and justice. Stay home with his mum and sisters? No bloody way.

"Glen!"

At the sound of his name, the tall, slender teenager turned. A pained expression crossed his face when he saw Devin. "Jaysus, Devin. Now, didn't I tell you to stay home?"

Next to him, Pearse laughed. "Since when does Devy listen to you?"

Devin brushed past the last of the marchers to reach him. "Bugger you," he said, grinning up at him. "I came anyway."

Glen's brown eyes glimmered with worry. "You hardheaded little imp. Can you never do as I tell you? There could be trouble here today."

Devin shifted the heavy sign to his left hand and held it higher. "I have to do my part for Da. You know that. Sure, maybe this will make the Brits release him. And all the other prisoners as well."

Pearse nudged Glen. "Ah, give the little squirt a break, Glennie. Sure, his heart's in the right place."

Glen stared at his little brother for a moment, then his eyes softened. His hand fastened on the boy's arm. "All right. Stay with us, then. But don't be doin' anything foolish."

Devin grinned. He knew Glen didn't really mind that he'd come. After all, it was for Da.

Glen gave him a sidelong glance. "I thought by leaving you the guitar, it would keep you busy for a time."

"It did. I made up a new song." Devin threw him a teasing grin. "It's about Rosalie." He waited for the blush to spread over his brother's cheeks, and when it did, he laughed. "Ah, she is a nice piece of crumpet, isn't she, now?"

Pearse laughed, shooting a knowing look at Glen. "She is that!"

Glen glared at Devin. "Make up all the songs you'd like about Rosalie O'Connor. It's nothing to me. Anyway, what made you leave my guitar and come join the march?"

Just as Devin opened his mouth to answer, the peaceful Sunday afternoon exploded in chaos. Gunfire. Devin spun in the direction it came from, his eyes searching for the source. But before he could see anything, Glen—or someone—shoved him hard in the middle of his back. He fell to the ground, his face and hands grinding into the pavement. Terrified screams erupted around him. Devin tried to move, but his brother held him securely to the ground. Glen's savage, suddenly adult voice growled into his ear: "Bloody hell! Keep your head down, Devin."

Devin obeyed. Seconds later, he heard a dull thump and felt Glen flinch. A soft sigh whispered from his brother's lips, just inches from Devin's ear. Devin's bowels tightened as an ice-cold fear ate its way through his insides. He knew what this meant.

"No!"
With renewed strength, he struggled up. Glen's limp body rolled away. His lifeless eyes stared at Devin, still showing the surprise he must've felt as the bullet entered his head just above the right temple. For a moment, Devin felt weightless, as if his body hovered above the still form of his brother, watching with a detached sort of curiosity. Then reaction set in. It was as if a leaden pipe had plowed a hole through his stomach. He gasped for breath, reaching a shaking hand toward the ominous trickle of blood oozing from Glen's wound.

"Glennie. Jaysus, Glen." Devin crouched on his knees, his hands touching Glen's face, brushing his black hair away from his forehead. His skin was still warm. He
was
still alive, wasn't he? Nothing could happen that fast, could it? "Blessed Mary, Mother of God . . ." Devin's voice broke. He couldn't go on. He bit his trembling bottom lip and leaned in to his brother. "I’ll get help for ya. Just hang on, Glen. Ya got to."

Devin scrambled to his feet, eyes darting frantically. "Help me, Pearse! Glen's been hit!"

His voice was lost in a swirling vortex of activity. Desperately, he peered around. Where was Pearse? Wasn't there someone who could help him?

All around him, the marchers huddled on the ground, cowering from bullets still whizzing through the air. He didn't see Pearse anywhere. Had he been hit, too? Amid hysterical screams, Devin heard someone murmuring the Lord's Prayer.

A hand reached out and grabbed his ankle. "Help me ..."

Startled, Devin looked down. It was the woman he'd bumped against only minutes before, her beehive was now matted with blood. Everywhere he looked, he saw blood. Even the air was rank with it.

"Devin! Get down!
"

Blankly, he turned to look in the direction of the panicked voice. Pearse was stumbling toward him, motioning frantically, but Devin could only stare at him in numbed confusion. Blood covered the older boy's jeans and black shirt in paint-like splotches.

Suddenly, a hot white fire speared Devin's upper left arm. In slow motion, he could feel himself falling. He could not protect himself from the impact with the concrete; it scraped his cheek, imbedding bits of dirt and gravel under his skin. Another searing pain shot through his nose, driving needlepoints into his skull. But it was nothing compared to the agony in his arm. Groaning, he lifted his head and saw blood from his smashed nose dripping onto the street. He sat up, shaking his head groggily. Almost immediately, everything dimmed; he slumped to the ground. His hand moved to the painful left arm and came back covered with blood. In amazement, he gazed at the crimson liquid. So much blood. Funny, Glen hadn't bled like this. There had been only that one little round hole.

Devin's head swam. In the distance, he heard the singsong whine of a siren growing closer. The rain fell harder now, its cool wetness a balm against his flushed face. His mind drifted as he stared up into the scudding gray clouds. The dull throb in his arm faded.

Suddenly, Pearse appeared above him, peering down anxiously. Then he began to pull on his body, dragging him away. It hurt. Oh, Lord Jesus, it hurt. Finally, mercifully, Pearse stopped tugging on him and knelt down at his side. He ripped at his shirt and quickly tied a strip of cloth around Devin's bleeding wound. A
black armband.
Did Pearse know about Glen, then?

Tears welled in his eyes. "They killed him, Pearse. They killed Glen," he whispered. "Why are they shooting at us, Pearse?"

"Hush, now. Save your strength. You're still losing blood."

It was true. His vision blurred, and Pearse's voice faded in and out. Devin bit his lip so hard he tasted blood. He couldn't pass out now. He had to make his brother's friend understand.

"Pearse, please, I..." He grasped the older boy's hand, hot tears spilling down his face.