EXCERPT INCLUDED – 99¢ sale
As they sift through the memories of her mother’s life and the men who loved her, Grace McAllister and her old bully Mayfield Donovan yield to their own strong attraction. The facts they uncover may destroy that love, as they discover a secret so closely guarded not even the town of Temple—where everyone knows everybody’s business—knows it exists.
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Never say Never, because if you do, sooner or later, those words will come back to bite you in the ass.
That was what I was thinking as I left the exit ramp from I-75.
The night my mother and I turned our backs on Temple, Georgia, I swore I’d never come back.
Actually, my mother was the one doing the swearing. She was holding my hand at the time, but I remember her words, “I don’t care if I ever see this damn town again,” and if that was her attitude, it was good enough for me.
I was just a child but if she hated the place, then so did I.
Even now, I ask myself, if her attitude had been different, would mine have been, also? We’re so very influenced by our parents’ attitudes when we’re young.
For whatever reason, that was my preferred point of view until I received a certified letter two weeks before, informing me my father had died and I was invited, though the wording made it clear it was more than an invitation, to be present at the reading of his will.
At first I stated quite plainly to my boss I had no intention of being there. Then curiosity got the better of me. What would a man, who hadn’t seen or heard from, or tried in any way to get in touch with, his daughter in twenty years, leave to her?
I was certain it’d be some laughable amount, like a dollar, or an equally insulting item, like ‘my second-best bed’, or some other ridiculous and worthless piece of junk I’d have trouble disposing of before flying home again. Nevertheless, I was curious, so with my boss’s encouragement and blessing, I went, though I felt like the proverbial cat, I was probably going to regret my curiosity when the smoke cleared.
There was another reason I went, something that had nagged at me for years.
My father had married again and I had a half-brother and sister I’d never seen, in fact didn’t even know their names. That same curiosity made me want to see just how alike we were.
I’d made reservations at Temple Manor. There was a Holiday Inn on the outskirts just past the Exit ramp, but I had a memory of the Manor from when I lived in Temple. Not a clear memory, of course, just an impression of an elaborate, red-bricked building with those revolving doors a five-year-old thought so amazing, and an overhang similar to a theater marquee, decorated with beautifully carved swags and festoons.
I’d never been inside but the exterior fascinated me so whenever we were downtown, Mama and I would always walk by the old hotel so I could look at that ornate façade.
I wondered if the image in my mind’s-eye was still accurate and hoped the place hadn’t turned seedy and become rundown in the interim. If so, I’d settle up, posthaste, and high-tail it back to the Holiday Inn. Pronto.
By now, I had arrived at the city limits. Before me loomed an old train station.
I’d forgotten about that.
The sign above the roof overhang read Temple, Georgia, Pop. 2,064. Obviously not taken from the latest census.
Mother once told me Temple was a small town with big city pretensions, and had the accessories to prove it…like a hospital serving a five-city area and a series of elite condos. The station, however, was one of the landmarks reminding everyone it wasn’t a bustling metropolis…yet. Perfectly preserved, it could only be described as quaint, like something out of a 1930s movie. It was a building about fifteen feet long with white-painted planking, the roof covered with red sandpaper shingles. I remember it housed a small waiting room, ticket master’s cubbyhole, and a storage space for luggage. Four wooden steps at either end descended to the unpaved parking lot. To one side of the luggage room, a wheeled carrier hugged the wall, waiting to be loaded, because…surprise!…the station was still in operation.
All that was missing was the wooden tower with a tin pipe to be lowered to the
engine, filling its reservoirs with water to be converted into steam. Maybe a post to
hang the mailbag on, so it could be hooked and carried away as the train sped
through.
A regular Icon of Yesteryear. A Relic from the Past.
I hated it. Every nostalgic, Old Southern splinter of it. Not for any of the current political reasons, but because it represented a life snatched away from me, and I still didn’t understand why that had happened.
That was what I was thinking as I left the exit ramp from I-75.
The night my mother and I turned our backs on Temple, Georgia, I swore I’d never come back.
Actually, my mother was the one doing the swearing. She was holding my hand at the time, but I remember her words, “I don’t care if I ever see this damn town again,” and if that was her attitude, it was good enough for me.
I was just a child but if she hated the place, then so did I.
Even now, I ask myself, if her attitude had been different, would mine have been, also? We’re so very influenced by our parents’ attitudes when we’re young.
For whatever reason, that was my preferred point of view until I received a certified letter two weeks before, informing me my father had died and I was invited, though the wording made it clear it was more than an invitation, to be present at the reading of his will.
At first I stated quite plainly to my boss I had no intention of being there. Then curiosity got the better of me. What would a man, who hadn’t seen or heard from, or tried in any way to get in touch with, his daughter in twenty years, leave to her?
I was certain it’d be some laughable amount, like a dollar, or an equally insulting item, like ‘my second-best bed’, or some other ridiculous and worthless piece of junk I’d have trouble disposing of before flying home again. Nevertheless, I was curious, so with my boss’s encouragement and blessing, I went, though I felt like the proverbial cat, I was probably going to regret my curiosity when the smoke cleared.
There was another reason I went, something that had nagged at me for years.
My father had married again and I had a half-brother and sister I’d never seen, in fact didn’t even know their names. That same curiosity made me want to see just how alike we were.
I’d made reservations at Temple Manor. There was a Holiday Inn on the outskirts just past the Exit ramp, but I had a memory of the Manor from when I lived in Temple. Not a clear memory, of course, just an impression of an elaborate, red-bricked building with those revolving doors a five-year-old thought so amazing, and an overhang similar to a theater marquee, decorated with beautifully carved swags and festoons.
I’d never been inside but the exterior fascinated me so whenever we were downtown, Mama and I would always walk by the old hotel so I could look at that ornate façade.
I wondered if the image in my mind’s-eye was still accurate and hoped the place hadn’t turned seedy and become rundown in the interim. If so, I’d settle up, posthaste, and high-tail it back to the Holiday Inn. Pronto.
By now, I had arrived at the city limits. Before me loomed an old train station.
I’d forgotten about that.
The sign above the roof overhang read Temple, Georgia, Pop. 2,064. Obviously not taken from the latest census.
Mother once told me Temple was a small town with big city pretensions, and had the accessories to prove it…like a hospital serving a five-city area and a series of elite condos. The station, however, was one of the landmarks reminding everyone it wasn’t a bustling metropolis…yet. Perfectly preserved, it could only be described as quaint, like something out of a 1930s movie. It was a building about fifteen feet long with white-painted planking, the roof covered with red sandpaper shingles. I remember it housed a small waiting room, ticket master’s cubbyhole, and a storage space for luggage. Four wooden steps at either end descended to the unpaved parking lot. To one side of the luggage room, a wheeled carrier hugged the wall, waiting to be loaded, because…surprise!…the station was still in operation.
All that was missing was the wooden tower with a tin pipe to be lowered to the
engine, filling its reservoirs with water to be converted into steam. Maybe a post to
hang the mailbag on, so it could be hooked and carried away as the train sped
through.
A regular Icon of Yesteryear. A Relic from the Past.
I hated it. Every nostalgic, Old Southern splinter of it. Not for any of the current political reasons, but because it represented a life snatched away from me, and I still didn’t understand why that had happened.