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1
Neta Jackson
SAMPLE CHAPTERS
Prologue
Springs protested in the darkness as a lumpy body turned over on the bottom bunk. From
another bunk—one of four lining the walls of the small bedroom—a pair of nearsighted
eyes peered anxiously into the shadows, making out the dim outline of her roommate
“Lucy?” The voice was tremulous, a cracked whisper. “Are you awake?”
“Lucy?”
“Fuzz Top? Think so. Ain’t heard nothin’ from her bunk. But if you don’ stop
“Well.”
“But . . .” The unsteady whisper trailed off. The elderly woman reached a hand
out from under the blankets provided by the homeless shelter until she touched thick
doggy hair, newly washed and silky. A rough tongue licked her fingers. Now the voice
choked up. “I was just so happy you and Gabrielle found Dandy, I didn’t ask why she’s
sleeping at the shelter tonight with me. Shouldn’t she be home with her boys?”
“Well.”
The woman named Martha slipped her hand back under the covers, pulled them
up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Her slight body made only a small ripple under
the blankets. It was her first overnight at Manna House. She felt a little strange—but her
daughter had come to stay with her a night or two, that’s what she said. Martha was glad,
even though she didn’t know why Gabrielle was sad. And her new friend Lucy was
Martha giggled. A homeless shelter! Noble would roll over in his grave if he knew
where she’d ended up. But she wasn’t lonely here, not like she’d been in the big old
house in Minot. And Dandy was asleep on the little rug by her bed, just like always. He’d
been lost all day . . . but she couldn’t remember exactly why. Had he run away? No,
Dandy never ran away. Well, it didn’t matter. He was safe now, snoring gently beside the
Her eyes flew open, staring at the bottom of the upper bunk overhead. Somebody
had said, “What’s that dog doing here? Manna House don’t allow no dogs!”
Oh dear. Would the shelter let her keep Dandy? Oh, she couldn’t stay another day
She rose up on one elbow. “Lucy! You still awake? Do you think—?”
“Miz Martha! If you don’ shut up and go to sleep, I’m gonna come over there and
bop you one.” Martha’s roommate flopped over, turned her back, and the springs groaned
once more. “Wonkers!” The gravelly voice settled into a mutter. “I get more sleep out on
Chapter 1
Semiconsciousness rose to the level of my eyelids, and they fluttered in the dim
light. Unnh. Not a lawn mower. Snoring. Philip was snoring and popping like a car with
My hand hit a wall. No Philip in the bed. Something was wrong. What was it? A
heavy grief sat on my chest, like someone had died. Had someone died?
I struggled to come to full consciousness and half-opened my eyes. Above me, all
I could make out in the dim light was a rough board. I stared, trying to make sense of it.
Why was I lying underneath a wooden board? Was I the one who died? Was I inside a
wooden coffin?
Coffin?! A surge of panic sent me bolt upright. “Ow!” I cracked my head on the
board and the snoring stopped. Rubbing the tender spot, I squinted into dimly lit space
and made out three bunk beds, one against each wall of a small room.
No coffin.
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Neta Jackson
Blowing out my relief, I swung my feet over the side of the lower bunk, but was
startled as a hairy face pushed its cold nose against my bare leg with a soft whine. I
reached out and touched the familiar floppy ears. Dandy. My mother’s dog . . .
And suddenly all the cracked pieces of my life came into focus.
I’d just spent the night at Manna House, a homeless shelter for women, where,
The bigger lump in the bunk next to her, producing the high-decibel racket, was
Lucy, a veteran “bag lady” who for some odd reason had befriended my frail mother.
Mom and I were “homeless” because yesterday my husband had kicked both of us
and the dog out of our penthouse condo along Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, changed the
locks, and skipped town . . . taking my two sons, P.J. and Paul, with him.
As reality flooded my brain, I fell back onto the bunk, bracing for the tears I knew
should follow. But the well was dry. I’d cried every drop the evening before and long into
the night. Now raw grief had settled behind my eyes and into every cavity of my spirit.
***
I must have dozed off again, because the next thing I heard was a ringing handbell and
several raps on the door. “Wake up, ladies! Six o’clock! Morning devotions at six-forty-
five sharp, breakfast at seven. People with jobs get first dibs on the showers.” The
I groaned and sat up, being careful not to hit my noggin again on the bottom of
the top bunk. Should have gotten up when I first awoke and jumped in the shower then.
My mother was stirring on the bunk next to mine, but Lucy’s bunk was empty.
“Mom, you okay? Do you need help getting to the bathroom?” I pulled on the same
“I’m all right.” She gingerly got out of bed, attired in a pair of baggy, clean-but-
used flannel pajamas the shelter had provided, then carefully spread up the sheets and
blankets. “But I don’t have my clothes. Where are my clothes? I have to take Dandy out.”
Dandy! A quick glance confirmed that the dog was not in the room. But neither
was Lucy. “Don’t worry, Mom. I think Lucy took him out. Wasn’t that nice? You can put
on the slacks and top you wore yesterday. Mr. Bentley said he’d bring our things when he
got off work last night.” The doorman at Richmond Towers had kindly offered to load his
own car with the piles of bags and suitcases my husband had unceremoniously dumped
outside our penthouse door, but Mr. Bentley didn’t get off until ten o’clock and still
hadn’t arrived when we’d gone to bed. Who knew how long it had taken him to get all
But if there was one person in the world I could count on, it was Mr. Bentley. Our
hovering right behind her. She even smiled as several of the young residents called out,
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“’Mornin’, Gramma Shep! How’d ya sleep?” and “Hey! Nice of Miz Gabby ta stay over
with ya.”
Good thing I had no time to linger in front of the mirror after brushing my teeth. I
looked a fright. My hazel eyes were red-rimmed and my frowzy reddish-brown curls a
snarly mess, and would probably stay that way until I got a chance to wash my hair and
Back in the bunk room, I tried not to show my impatience as my mother slowly
dressed. Is it too early to try calling the boys? I had to talk to them! It was already seven-
thirty in Virginia. I fumbled for my cell phone. Not in Service blinked at me.
Okay, I’d use my office phone . . . wait, I needed to get a phone card first. Shelter
phones had local call service only. “Mom, come on. You ready?”
The night manager had told us last night we could use the service elevator—not
mother. But Mom had taken one look at the small cubicle and said she’d rather take the
stairs, so this morning we went down, one step at a time, to the multipurpose room on the
main floor where the residents were gathering somewhat reluctantly for morning
devotions. I realized that even though I’d been working at the shelter for two months, I
had no clue what the morning routine was like before 9 or 10 a.m. when I had usually
arrived. “Guess I’m going to find out,” I murmured, pouring two ceramic cups of
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steaming coffee from the big carafes on a side table, added powdered cream, and settled
“Buongiorno, signores! Who will read our psalm this morning?” The same
booming voice that had woken us up with a thick Italian accent, packaged in a sturdy
body about five-foot-four, black hair pulled back into a knot, waved her Bible and
I’d met the night manager briefly at our Fun Night several weeks ago and again
last night, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember her real name. Everybody just
referred to her as “Sarge.” I’d been told she was a God-fearing ex-marine sergeant, just
the sort of tough love needed on night duty at a homeless shelter. She knew my mother
had been put on the bed list, but Lucy’s and my arrival last night with a muddy mutt in
tow had thrown her into a conniption. She and Lucy had gone nose-to-nose for a few
minutes, but with my mother crying tears of joy over the return of her lost dog to the
cheers of half the residents, Sarge had the presence of mind to call the Manna House
director to ask what to do with the shelter’s former program director who’d just turned up
I could only imagine what Mabel Turner thought. How many times had the
director graciously made exceptions for me in the two months I’d been on staff? I’d lost
count.
But somehow Dandy had gotten a temporary reprieve, and we both got a bed.
“‘. . . Better the little that the righteous have than the wealth of many wicked,’”
one of the residents was reading. The psalm got my attention. “‘. . . for the power of the
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wicked will be broken, but the Lord upholds the righteous.’ Psalm 37, readin’ verse one
through—”
“Humph!” growled a gravelly voice coming up behind me. “Ain’t seen it happen
yet.”
“Ha. That’s ’cause ya gotta be righteous, Lucy,” the reader shot back. Snickers
“Sit down, Lucy,” Sarge barked. “If you are going to be late, at least do not
interrupt. All right, who has a prayer request for today? Any job interviews? Wanda, did
you get your state ID yet? . . . Va bene, we will pray about that. Anything else?”
Behind me, Lucy leaned over the back of the couch and whispered in my ear. “I
put Dandy in your ol’ office downstairs after he did his bizness, thinkin’ it might be best
ta keep him outta the way this mornin’. But there ain’t much room for him in that ol’
broom closet. It’s all full of your stuff that Mr. Bentley musta brought last night.
I gave her a grateful nod over my shoulder. “Good idea, Lucy,” I whispered back.
“Thanks for taking him out this morning.” It was a good idea. The familiar smell of our
belongings would probably keep the dog pacified for a while. “And thanks for giving him
a bath last night. Sorry I didn’t say something earlier. I was a bit of a wreck last night.”
“Humph. You still a wreck, missy. Didja look in a mirror this mornin’?”
I rolled my eyes and didn’t care if she noticed. As if Lucy had a leg to stand on, in
her mismatched layers of clothes, most of which could use a good wash. Better yet,
tossed out for good. And her matted gray hair looked like she cut it herself . . .
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A hair stylist. That’s what we need at Manna House! I wonder if anyone knows a
I caught myself. What in the world was I doing, thinking like a program director?
You quit yesterday, remember? I reminded myself. And I had bigger problems to deal
with.
Much bigger.
***
I was pacing back and forth in Mabel Turner’s office when the director arrived that
morning.
place, opened the door and stopped, hand on the doorknob, her eyebrows arching at me
“Um, Angela let me wait in your office.” I jerked a thumb across the foyer where
the receptionist busied herself behind the glassed-in cubby. “I’m sorry, Mabel. I just
couldn’t wait out there in the multipurpose room with people all around. I—” I flopped
Mabel shut the door, dropped her purse on the desk, and squatted down beside
I thought the well had gone dry, but the concern in her rich brown eyes tapped
another reservoir of tears and it took me half a box of tissues to get through the whole
sorry mess. Locked out. Put out. Boys gone. No place to go but here.
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“I–I didn’t even g-get to tell Philip I quit my job here like h-he wanted me to, or
—or that Mom was going to stay here at Manna House and be out of his hair . . .” I
stopped and blew my nose for the fourth time. “B-but he was so mad, Mabel, ’cause I
accidentally passed on a message from his business partner, you know, when he and the
boys were out on a sailboat with one of his clients last weekend, and it caused him to lose
that client. He blamed me, said I didn’t want his business to succeed—but that isn’t true,
Mabel! He—”
“I know, I know.” The shelter director patted my knee, stood up, and got her desk
chair, pulling it around so she could sit next to me. “But he just locked you out? I mean,
he can’t do that! Go talk to the building management. Today. If both your names are on
the purchase contract, he can’t just change the locks and kick you out. That’s your home
too! And he can’t just take the boys either. You have rights, Gabby. You—”
I held up my hand to stop her, staring at her face. Both our names? I felt confused.
Had I ever signed anything to purchase the penthouse? I tried to think. Philip had come to
Chicago four months ago to finalize things with his new business partner and find a place
“We don’t have joint accounts.” I swallowed. “I never really questioned it. Philip
was always generous. I had his credit cards and a household account in my name . . . It
Mabel looked at me for a long minute. “Do you have any money, Gabby?”
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have a week’s salary coming from Manna House still.” Which we both knew wasn’t
I jumped out of my chair and began to pace once more. “I don’t want to talk about
money, Mabel. Or even the penthouse. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the
boys! I need to get my sons back!” My voice got fierce. “He . . . he just up and took them
back to their grandparents in Virginia! I never even got to say good-bye.” I shook a finger
in her face. “I’m their mother! You said it yourself—I’ve got rights!”
Mabel grabbed my wrist. “Gabby . . . Gabby, stop a minute and listen to me. Sit.”
I pulled my hand from her grasp and glared at her because I didn’t have anyone
She took a big breath . . . but her voice was gentle. “Gabby, you do have rights.
But you need to understand something. No court is going to rule in your favor if you