Good Morning Friends,
It's a beautiful day here in SW Louisiana. We've been getting rain pretty much every day so things are lush and green. Please pray for our neighbors in TX, they're in desperate need of some. THANKS!
Today's guest has visited several times before, so please welcome Stacey Weeks back with a peek into her brand new novel, The Sycamore Standoff....
She wants independence. He wants her affections. They’ll have to face her past for any chance of a future.
Meg Gilmore escapes an abusive relationship and rebuilds her life, but her victory is short-lived. Change threatens her new refuge, and she underestimates her adversary. But Meg is a fighter. She will do whatever it takes to protect what she loves. Her past catches up with her present and uproots everything she has built, including a fragile and growing friendship with a kind and generous man. The freedom and love Meg has always wanted is hers for the taking, but she’ll have to confront what truly terrifies her to claim it.
Excerpt: Something wasn’t right. Meg Gilmore stopped abruptly on the sidewalk in front of her cedar-sided historical home. As she squinted at the tiny one-bedroom bungalow, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted, and an unseasonal shiver rippled down her spine. Her backpack slipped off her shoulder and landed on the ground with a thud.
The Canadian flag mounted to the right of the front door rippled in the warm, late-afternoon breeze. The vintage mailbox remained closed. Tulips and daffodils waved a happy greeting from their sunny spot in the front garden. Nothing was trampled. Nothing appeared out of place. Everything looked just as she’d left it this morning.
Yet it all felt wrong. The double-check-your-locks, peek-in-the-closet, and look-behind-the-shower-curtain kind of wrong. Meg’s legs quivered, and she settled a hand over her midsection. She couldn’t explain why. There was no reason for the chill filling her core.
She instinctively shrank back. She hadn’t felt this kind of inexplicable apprehension since . . . well, she really didn’t want to think about that. She forced her spine to straighten and picked up her bag. She wasn’t the same person she was back then. She sucked in a deep breath, marched to the front door, jabbed her key into the lock, and twisted. The lock clicked open as she would expect, and she gave the door a trepidatious shove.
Her breath shot out of her. See. Everything is fine.
Finding a house that she loved in a historical neighborhood in Sycamore Hill had been one more rung on her ladder toward independence. Sure, she didn’t own it. And yes, it was the smallest house on the street. But she’d scraped together the first and last month’s rent to secure the place while studying as a full-time student at Grander University and working part-time at The Muffin Man. And she’d done so all by herself.
Her keys clinked against the ceramic rim of the shallow, catch-all bowl she kept on the entry table. In less than a minute, she moved through the entire house, tidying a stack of books here and a throw blanket there. She snagged her journal from where she’d left it this morning on the round table in the breakfast nook. Everything was fine. Normal. Just as it should be. Just as it had always been since she arrived in Sycamore Hill. But if that were true, why did an invisible weight press on her chest, making it difficult to take in a full breath?
She hugged her journal. Journaling usually filled her soul with a cathartic calm—the kind of peace missing from her messed-up insides right now. Her counsellor-turned-friend, Kim—trustworthy from the days Meg lived in Sycamore Hill’s local shelter, Life House—would tell her to work it out on paper. But she’d graduated from their program nearly a year ago, and she didn’t want to write. She wanted to talk.
Lord, You say to pray about everything, so here it is. Something feels off. Her eyelids fell closed, and she inhaled a focused, deep breath. Help me remember that You are with me always.
A sudden vibration in her back pocket made her yelp, and then she laughed. She rubbed her palm over her galloping heart as she tried to force her uncooperative gaze to focus on the text message from Eli. Meet me at Alfred in 10?
She gave it a thumbs up, and the reply went out with a quiet whoosh. She was being ridiculous. This was ridiculous. Meg tossed her knapsack onto her bed as she passed the open bedroom door. The smooth, undisturbed quilt sagged under the weight of her textbooks. The bedroom was the only separate space in the house, if you didn’t count the restroom. Having come full circle, Meg sat down on the small bench near the front door. She had no logical reason for her rising panic.
But it happened like that sometimes. Coming out of nowhere and gut-punching the breath from her lungs.
A burning sensation scorched the back of her throat. She tugged off the ballet flats she’d worn to school and pulled on a pair of socks and sneakers. Outside the paned glass back door, the sun remained high in the sky, having only partly begun its descent into evening. Hours of daylight remained—not that she needed hours. She lived only five minutes from every amenity Sycamore Hill offered its residents. Meg shut and locked the door behind her and headed toward the center of town. With every step that put distance between her and her house, the creepy feeling of being watched receded, and her labored breathing eased.
By the time Meg rounded the corner onto Main Street, she almost felt normal again. Her boss from The Muffin Man bakery called out a cheery good afternoon as she passed. She smiled. Grabbing breakfast-to-go at the bakery that employed her had become part of Meg’s morning routine, her one treat on a tight budget.
Her steps hitched. All the articles she’d read advised women with a past like hers to avoid predictability in their schedule, but it had been so long since . . . Her chest constricted. Had she made herself too easy to find?
Her phone vibrated again. Running late.
Meg had hardly read the message before someone brushed past her, nearly sending her phone to the sidewalk. Her breath stalled in her throat as she fumbled to maintain a hold on the device.
“Sorry,” mumbled a woman, hurrying past her before turning toward the bank.
Meg sagged and sent Eli another thumbs up. Everything was fine. As she crested the gentle incline of Main Street, the magnificent sycamore she’d nicknamed Alfred came into view. The tips of its full crown waved hello, and the quivering in her belly settled. Its rich and familiar aroma soothed her erratic heartbeat. The shade beneath Alfred’s protective branches was her go-to place for solace. And today, she needed solace.
But then she spotted a chain-link fence imprisoning it. A padlock. A public notice.
As if a fist had reached into her chest and squeezed, her heart wrenched.
Meg raced toward the tree, hitting the barricade with the power of a gale-force wind. She rattled the locked gate, shaking loose a poster pronouncing: The Future is Yours. Come Home to a New Horizon Property.
She picked it up. Condos? She tore her gaze from the poster to Alfred’s patchwork bark that exposed white, green, and cream-colored inner layers. Alfred mattered more than condos. The massive sycamore fig—the singular remnant of an ancient forest from another era—stood as the sole survivor of his community. He was a fighter. Like her.
Stacey writes faith-filled contemporary romance and romantic suspense with strong female leads and imperfect heroes. She is a multi-award-winning author, conference speaker, and Bible study teacher. She loves to read and will try almost any creative pursuit at least once. Stacey lives in Ontario with her husband of 25 years and three children. When she is not writing, she is probably jogging the trails, homeschooling her kids, or trying out a new recipe. Find out more about Stacey and her work by visiting her
website or connecting with her on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/writerSWeeks Twitter:
@writerSWeeks and Instagram:
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The Sycamore Standoff HERE and check out Stacey's previous visits to our blog
HERE.
Wishing you the best of luck and God's blessings with your new book, Stacey!
Until next time friends, take care and God bless.
PamT
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