After the Rain

“White’s revamp of the out-of-print 2003 version of After the Rain is a touching sequel to Falling Home that embraces everything special about small-town Southern life.”
—Publishers Weekly

“White…re-polishes her 2003 publication to good effect. This charming romance brims with appealing characters and captivating phrasing.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“All of White’s special talents are on display as she crafts a fascinating plot, and creates indelible characters.”
—Jackie Cooper, The Huffington Post

” If you’re looking for a story that will take your breath away, there’s nothing quite like a visit to White’s unforgettable town of Walton, Georgia.”
—Jen Vido, Fresh Fiction

“[T]he story line sweetly compels. Fun southern expressions…add more zest to this title set firmly in the southern women’s fiction pantheon.”
—Booklist

CHAPTER 1

Tides change. So does the moon. With the unfailing constancy of brittle autumn closing in on bright summer, things always changed. If Suzanne had ever had faith in anything, it was in knowing that all things were fleeting. And for good reason. The highway of life was littered with the roadkill of those who didn’t know when to change lanes.

Almost asleep now, Suzanne brushed the pads of her fingers across her forehead, then down the bridge of her nose to the small, pointed bone of her chin. Yes, it was still her. One thousand miles, a quick dye job, and the surgical removal of her life had not completely obliterated her. Just smudged the edges.

The hissing of the bus’s brakes brought Suzanne awake from her almost-doze. She pushed herself away from the images of a soft bed and dark Italian suits and opened her eyes wide to stare out at the anonymous highway rolling outside her window. A waxing moon smiled down at her with a crescent grin, and she touched the glass as if to bring it closer. “God’s smile,” she whispered to no one, recalling something her mother had once told her. Absently she let her fingers fall to the charm on the gold chain around her neck, finding comfort in touching the small heart through her shirt.

A sign on the overpass above them beamed at her through the murky glass: Welcome to Walton. Where Everybody Is Somebody.

She craned her neck as the bus slid under the overpass, partially obscuring the sign, but wanting to make sure she had read it right. The bus slowed to a stop, and the door opened with a loud gasp. An older woman, wearing red high heels and with hair puffed out in a tight bouffant like a halo, stood at the back of the bus and began walking forward.

The driver followed the woman off the bus, and Suzanne listened as the luggage compartment was opened. With a squeal, the woman greeted somebody who had been waiting. She listened as a deep male voice, definitely not that of their Hispanic driver, greeted the passenger. His voice carried an accent that would have placed him in rural Georgia no matter what corner of the world he might travel. Suzanne smiled to herself, content not to be so burdened.

The driver seemed to be taking a long time pulling out the woman’s luggage. From the snippets of conversation, Suzanne gathered that there was a piece missing. She rested her head on the back of her seat and continued to listen. She heard the Georgia man speak again, and there was something about his voice that pulled at her, something thick and rich like dark syrup. It soothed and cajoled, as if the voice had had years of practice.

Disturbed by the effect the man’s voice was having on her, she turned away, but only to catch sight of the sign again. Welcome to Walton. Where Everybody Is Somebody.

She sat up, watching as the light trained on the sign dimmed, then brightened, flickering at her like a winking eye. With a hand that trembled slightly, she pulled at the chain around her neck until the charm fell on the outside of her Tee-shirt. Tucking in her chin to see it better, she turned the gold heart over in her hand to read the tiny, engraved words.

A life without rain is like the sun without shade. With short, unpolished nails, she scraped the charm from her palm and flipped it over. R. Michael Jewelers. Walton.

She pressed her forehead against the window, forcing herself to breathe deeply and recalling the woman who had given her the necklace. Walton.

The name shifted her jaw, as if moved by her mother’s invisible hand, but she shook her head. It was a million-to-one shot that it was the same town. It would take sheer luck—something that had always run on a parallel with her life, never intersecting.

As she stared out the window, a small shape darted from the grass on the other side of the highway and onto the shoulder of the road. Headlights from an approaching car appeared on the horizon, two pinpoints gradually growing larger. The shape moved into the arc cast by a streetlight, and Suzanne recognized the pointed head and thin, whiplike tail of an opossum.

Pushing her hands against the window in an impotent offer to help, she glanced again at the approaching car, then back at the animal, its quivering nose pointing into the road. “Don’t,” Suzanne mouthed, but slowly the animal waddled into the lane and stopped, watching as the car bore down on it.

The entire scene was too much like her mother’s fascination with the bottle, complete with Suzanne’s own helplessness, and she shut her eyes on the inevitable, only opening them when she could hear the dying strains of a country song from the radio of the car as it passed. Peering out the glass, she could make out the small animal in the middle of the road, curled into a tight little ball under the crescent moon. It wasn’t dead, but it wasn’t doing anything to prevent another onslaught, either.

Abruptly she stood and announced to no one in particular, “I’m getting off here.”