The Saints of Swallow Hill
Donna Everhart
Acknowledgments Whenever I sit down and think about my journey to become a writer, I am keenly aware I will never be able to thank every person who has in some way played a part for where I am today. Even while I’d love to do so, it’s clear without these particular individuals, writing this recognition page wouldn’t be possible at all. With that in mind: To my editor, John Scognamiglio, I am sincerely grateful for your commitment to my writing, and your unwavering dedication in making sure I am doing my best work.
To my agent, John Talbot, you have always shown nothing but steadfast support, and your enthusiastic encouragement is infectious and sustaining.
To Vida, I can’t thank you enough for all you do to promote my brand. You are meticulous in all you do, and I am forever grateful for your expertise.
To Kris, when I see the covers you create for my books, I always say, “This is her best yet.” You stole the show on this one.
To Carly, your superior guidance through the copyediting process is reassuring, and tells me you care as much about my story as I do.
To the rest of the Kensington team, I value the hard work, dedication to excellence, and the attention to detail each of you exhibits as you manage your individual tasks which either directly or indirectly impact the success of each of my books.
To Lynne Hugo, thank you, thank you, for reading my earliest drafts when this manuscript was filled with what could only be called “ugly” writing. My word, not yours! Your positive encouragement works wonders—look, it’s finished!
To my writer friends with NCWN and WFWA, your support means so much. Thank you for being there.
To booksellers and librarians, you stepped up during a very challenging time in our history. Not long after the release of my last book, my events were canceled one after the other due to the pandemic. Despite needing to rethink how to connect readers and writers, with ingenuity, creativity, and a whole lot of daring, new ways were forged to stay connected. I am in awe and want to thank you for blazing these new paths of individual sustainability.
To my readers, you are on the other side of the publishing spectrum. It’s you who also enable me to continue to do what I love because of your passion for reading. A special mention to these devoted book advocates who cheer authors on as if their very lives depended on it. To Kristy Barrett, Susan Peterson, Susan Roberts, Dawnny, Denise, Linda Zagon, Nola Nash, and as always, too many others to name, thank you all once again for sharing your passion for reading.
To Jamie Adkins, of The Broad Street Deli & Market, thank you ever so much for your ongoing support, and for giving Dunn residents a convenient place to purchase my books.
And to my family: my son, Justin, who is always so helpful at my events; my daughter, Brooke, whose love of reading, while temporarily sidelined raising my grands (should she speak to Zibby Owens???), continues to be supportive by always listening. And most of all, to my ever supportive husband, who has definitely saved me from one of my plot holes more than once! I love all of you.
Here’s to the land of the Long Leaf Pine,
The Summer Land where the sun doth shine;
Where the weak grow strong and the strong grow great—
Here’s to “Down Home,” the Old North State!
Here’s to the land of the cotton blooms white,
Where the scuppernong perfumes the breeze at night,
Where the soft Southern moss and jessamine mate,
’Neath the murmuring pines of the Old North State!
Here’s to the land where the galax grows,
Where the rhododendron roseate glows;
Where soars Mount Mitchell’s summit great,
In the “Land of the Sky,” in the Old North State!
Here’s to the land where maidens are fair,
Where friends are the truest, and cold hearts are rarest;
The near land, the dear land, whatever our fate,
The blessed land, the best land, the Old North State!
—Leonora Monteiro Martin, “The Old North State: A Toast”
Part I
Flight
Chapter 1
Del
He’d been working on Moe Sutton’s farm down in Clinch County, Georgia, a few weeks when he and three others finished the day’s work and he’d let it slip it was his birthday. A newly minted twenty-eight, they started giving him a hard time about not having himself a wife yet. The joking went from questions about his manliness to maybe being a bit too clean. He bathed regular. Them? Only on Saturday nights. He made sure to wash and rinse out the extra shirt and pants he had so he had something clean to put on for the week. Despite themselves, they smelled like they’d not stuck their big toe in bathwater in months. Ripe, fruity scents floated about when they were near and only got worse as temperatures rose during the day. Their own clothes, despite the earnest effort of their wives scrubbing them, were slick with grease and dirt, and decorated with various stains from sweat and spills.
The loudest, Ned Baker, whose face remained bright red even when it was cool, said, “Ain’t got no hair on his chest like this here, neither. Women? Shoot, they’s partial to a hairy man.”
He pulled his shirt aside to reveal a mat of black hair, thick as a boar bristle brush.
He dipped his head toward his house, winked, and said, “She’s in there awaiting on me. I’d betcha ten to one.”
Scraggly, pint-size Ollie Tuttle grunted in agreement, oily hair hanging in his face.
He said, “It ain’t good for one’s constitution, being that clean and such. You can give yourself the pneumony.”
He sniffed his armpit, grimaced, and bobbed his head in affirmation the odor was as it should be as he bounced baby Jack on his knees and cooed at him.
He concluded, “Smell like a polecat, but I got me a wife, and she give me two sons.” He nudged the colored man next to him, while gesturing at Del. “Our new man here, he’s right purty, ain’t he?”
The colored man, Juniper Jones, had no reaction, but that wasn’t unusual. Del got the sense he didn’t share his views on white folks and their business. He liked to kid around, and did sometimes, but turned back to serious pretty quick. He was most intent on making sure there was food on his table. Del learned him and his wife, Mercy, had been with Moe Sutton the longest and all told could outwork any of these “young whippersnappers.”