Small Town Girl

LaVyrle Spencer Small Town Girl

© 1997

Many thanks to the people who helped me

during the research and writing of this book.

Ruth Reed, friend

Dr. David Palmer, consultant

Connie Bennett, fellow writer

Reba McEntire, inspiration and consultant

This book is dedicated to all the editors I've worked with through the twenty years of my writing career. Each has brought me knowledge and friendship. Each has been wise and supportive. Each has made me a better writer. I've loved and enjoyed you all.

Star Helmer damaris Rowland

Leslie Gelbman

Lisa Wager

Chris Pepe

And to one more person whose unwavering support has been behind me through all my years with Penguin Putnam Inc.

David Shanks

Wow, David,

you're absolutely the greatest!

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***

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Verse 3

Heard a lot of talk about the boy next door
He's a pan of yesteryear I see no more
Circumstance took us eighteen years apart
Took him just one night to soften up my heart
Say good-bye
Mustn't cry.

Verse 4

Hometown girl departing on a one-way flight
Something deep inside her somehow set a-right
Runs her tearful eyes across the faded kitchen wall
Whispers, Mama, please don't change at all
Must return
There's more to learn.
One-way traffic crawlin' round a small town square…

CHAPTER ONE

The black 300 ZX with the smoked windows looked completely out of place in Wintergreen, Missouri, population 1,713. Heads turned as it downshifted and growled its way around the town square behind Conn Hendrickson's lumbering Sinclair fuel oil truck and Miss Elsie Bullard's 1978 Buick sedan, whose speedometer hadn't seen fifty since she drove it off the showroom floor. On the open road, Miss Elsie cruised at forty-five. In town, she preferred a genteel fifteen.

The Z came up short behind her. its stereo booming through the closed windows. The brakes shrieked and its rear end vaulted, drawing attention to the Tennessee vanity plates.

MAC, it said.

And MAC said it all.

Four old men stood out in front of Wiley's Bakery with coffee on their breath, sucking toothpicks, following the car with their eyes.

'There she is.'

'She's back.'

'Showin' off some, too.'

'Shoo-ey. 'At's some car she's herdin'.'

'What's she doin' here anyways? She don't come back too often.'

'Her momma's havin' her other hip surgeried. Come back to help her out awhile's what I heard.'

'How can she see out them there windows?'

'Always figgered people who needed windows that black got somethin' to hide, ain't that right, Delbert?'

They watched the sleek machine follow right on Miss Elsie's tail. The traffic around the town square moved oneway, counterclockwise, and on this lazy Tuesday in April, Miss Elsie, just off her volunteer stint at the Three Rivers Nursing Home, was hankering for a strawberry ice-cream cone from Milton's Drugstore. She putt-putted around four sides of the square at the speed of a candle melting, searching for just the right place to park; the Z followed her around three, a scant yard off her heavy chrome bumper.

Inside the sports car Tess McPhail interrupted her singing and said aloud, 'Move your ass, Miss Elsie!'

For the last five hours she'd been listening to her own voice on a rough cut off the upcoming album she'd been