The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Secrets, written in 2018, is my third novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
Fifteen year-old Matt Benson moves with Robert, his widowed father, to Boaz, Alabama for one year as Robert conducts research on Southern Baptist Fundamentalism. Robert, a professor of Bible History and new Testament Theology at the University of Chicago’s Divinity School enlists Matt to assist him as an undercover agent at First Baptist Church of Christ. Matt’s job is to befriend the most active young person in the Church’s youth group and learn the heart and mind of teenagers growing up as fundamentalist Southern Baptists.
Olivia Tillman is the fourteen year old daughter of Betty and Walter Tillman. He is the pastor of First Baptist Church of Christ. Robert and Matt move to Boaz in June 1970, and before high school begins in mid-August, Matt and Olivia become fast friends. Olivia’s life is centered around her faith, her family, and her friends. She is struck with Matt and his doubts and vows to win him to Christ. Over the next year, Matt and Olivia’s relationship blossoms into more than a teenage romance, despite their different religious beliefs.
June 1971 and Matt’s return to Chicago comes too quickly, but the two teenagers vow to never lose what they have, even promising to reunite at college in three years after Olivia graduates from Boaz High School.
The Boaz Secrets is told from the perspective of past and present. The story alternates between 1970-1971, and 2017-2018. After Matt left Boaz in June 1971, life happened and Olivia and Matt’s plans fell apart. However, in December 2017, their lives crossed again, almost miraculously, and they have a month in Boaz to catch up on forty-six years of being apart. They attempt to discover whether their teenage love can be rekindled and transformed into an adult romance even though Matt is 63 and Olivia is 61.
In 2017, Olivia and Matt are quick to learn they are vastly different people than they were as fifteen and sixteen year old teenagers– especially, when it comes to religion and faith. Will these religious differences unite them? The real issue is the secret Olivia has kept. Will Matt’s discovery destroy any chance he and Olivia have of rekindling their teenage relationship?
Chapter 33
December 31, 2017 through January 3, 2018
Yesterday had been unseasonably warm. It felt as though it was at least six months after Christmas. In fact, it had been less than a week. I had picked Olivia up at Warren’s just after sunrise. We spent the entire day in Mentone, Alabama. It was a place I had always wanted to visit. Dr. Ayers, my high school Biology teacher, had introduced me to this inviting place over lunch one day in her classroom while she was describing how it had helped shape the most unique and beautiful love affair that had ever been. It was her daughter Ellen, and her soul mate, Ruthie Brown, who had fallen in love at first sight when they both were about to enter the ninth grade. Dr. Ayers said the two teenagers had spent Fall weekends in Mentone during their Freshman and Sophomore years, and that they had always come home looking as though they had bathed in a mysterious romantic brew. She said, “the girls often referred to their time in Mentone as ‘Triple T: Time, Touch, and Talk,’ and always claimed without these three ingredients their relationship would be as bland as that of Romeo and Juliet.” All during the remainder of my eleventh-grade year I had been intrigued by Ellen and Ruthie and whether in fact there could be a love affair that greatly exceeded that of the legendary Romeo and Juliet’s. I had tried my best to find a way for Olivia and me to visit Mentone to see if it would have the same effect on us. The trip never happened. Until yesterday.
Mentone’s website described itself as “a “quaint, welcoming mountain village nestled atop the west brow of Lookout Mountain.” Olivia and I had spent the morning ambling through two antique shops and touring the Mountain Laurel Inn that was across the street in downtown Mentone. A rarest of coincidences occurred when the current operator and her grandmother, the former operator, took time to sit with us in the large den. Over a cup of coffee and out of the blue I had asked the grandmother if she remembered two teenage girls, Ellen and Ruthie, who had visited in the late sixties. Riddled with arthritis and confined to a wheel chair had not slowed the elderly woman’s mind. She almost instantly responded. “How could I forget the face of pure love. Those two young ladies, unwise as most all teenagers, realized that true love is the rarest of things. It’s a gift from the most miserly god. It’s like a thriving, virtually extinct plant the day it arrives but without constant attention, will pack its bags and walk off without word-to-word and skin-to-skin nourishment.” I think Olivia and the granddaughter got bored with mine and the grandmother’s conversation. Finally, Olivia pulled me away and we enjoyed a late breakfast at the Wildflower Cafe across the street.
The afternoon was spent at DeSoto Falls sitting with our backs against a huge rock as we watched and listened to the constant roar of water tumbling down over one hundred feet. I couldn’t help but think of Ellen and Ruthie sitting on their Rock of Ages up on the mountain just downstream from where we sat below the falls. I was pleasantly surprised that my memory was so acute.
Olivia was like a different person. For the first time since we met in Boaz nearly a month ago, she had asked about our future. I had wanted several times to bring up the subject. But, unfortunately, I had gotten sidetracked with my little investigation. Yesterday, Olivia had shared how she didn’t want us to make the same mistake again, to let each other go. “If you move back to Chicago and me to Chapel Hill, it will be the same thing all over again. Matt, I cannot stand to lose you, a second time. What do we do? Oh, I forgot to say, I love you.” Olivia had said laying back against my chest as I held her close with both my arms and my legs. We both had kept our attention on the cascading water, feeling a slight mist landing on our faces and hands.
We had not come to any definitive conclusion even though we had spent nearly three hours in the same spot. The best idea that we had come up with was to alternate weekends flying to the other until we could figure something out. One thing we had no trouble deciding was there was no turning back. We had now been given a second chance and we both knew how rare, exceedingly rare, it was for a once in life love, unnourished for decades, to be miraculously revived.
We had returned to Boaz a little past sunset. I was glad I had not shipped G and H, the two samples I had retrieved from Robert Miller. I had just kissed Olivia and said goodbye on Warren’s front porch when Tiffany opened the door and asked me to stay for supper. Olivia indicated she wanted me to stay but didn’t seem overeager. That second was a light bulb moment. I eagerly accepted Tiffany’s invitation. I wanted to see Walter Tillman.
The light would have never come on if it hadn’t been for a political story I had been following for the past few weeks. Alabama Senatorial candidate Roy Moore had been enthralled in a story of horrible sexual allegations. Six or seven women, all now in their early to late fifties, had come forward accusing Mr. Moore of sexually abusing them as teenagers, some forty years ago. The first woman to come forward had said that she was only 14 when Mr. Moore, as a 32-year-old assistant district attorney in Etowah County, had taken her to his home in the woods and sexually assaulted her. For some strange reason these accusations, and especially the one about the 14-year-old, had spawned an idea. What if Walter had sexually abused his own daughter? I still don’t know why I had thought this. I really had no basis for thinking such a vile thought about Pastor Walter, a man who I had respected even midst the talk and rumors he was strict with Olivia, almost unbearable. Nevertheless, I had pursued my hypothesis. Without success Sunday night, even though I had shared a meal with the weak and pitiful Walter Tillman, I was unable to secure his DNA.
This didn’t mean I had quit trying. After a New Year’s Day repeating most everything Olivia and I had done on Christmas Day, I had stumbled on a better idea. Tuesday morning and the Post Office would be open. I had packed a copy of Walter’s book, I’m From Boaz, that was published a little over a year after Dad and I had moved away from Boaz in 1971. Olivia, we were still together, albeit at a distance, had talked about it and she had mailed me a copy. I had not finished reading the book. I had gotten bored with his monotonous story, how he was descended somehow from Boaz in the Old Testament and had miraculously wound up in Alabama at a city named after his Israelite ancestor.
While Warren was playing golf and Tiffany and Olivia were looking for good deals at the new shopping center in Albertville, I had arranged to again visit with Walter. My excuse was to have him autograph my book, well actually, the copy I had luckily located in a local bookstore. This time I was successful. It’s because I was prepared. I had a plan. I had carefully sanitized the Class Century Cross pen that Dean Stillman, my boss at the University of Chicago, had given me last Christmas. I had been careful to insert it inside I’m From Boaz. As I sat and watched Walter write an elaborate note on the inside title page I couldn’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I had become a private detective. I wondered if there were professional schools for that. “Just put the pen inside the book, I’ll probably never use it again.” I had told Pastor Walter chuckling aloud as I looked at him and pondered his future fate. He just couldn’t be a criminal.
After leaving the harmless-looking Walter, I had arrived at the Post Office just in time for Freda to process the box that contained, individually secure in their own evidence bags, a fork, a spoon, and a pen. As I paid her, she looked straight in my eyes and said, “when you complete your investigation I sure hope you will tell me who killed Mr. Boddy.” I stood confused. Quickly, she had said, “you know, from the game Clue.” No doubt, Freda was on to something. She either had an uncanny nose for these type things or she had installed some high-tech form of spy-ware inside my mind.
To my complete surprise, Olivia had surprised me early Tuesday morning with an unarguable declaration we were headed back to Mentone. I was lucky to have had time to drop by the Post Office before she whisked me away to dream land.
While I had been enthralled with the grandmother’s memories of Ellen and Ruthie, Olivia had cornered the current bed and breakfast operator and arranged for us to return to the Mountain Laurel Inn for a couple of days. I had not resisted. We had arrived mid-afternoon and spent the next two hours until dark beneath the sheets in the Inn’s ‘Orange Room.’ Olivia, ever the observer, had made sure that the bedtime activities had included all three of the Triple T’s. “Matt, baby, I promise I will always spend quality time with you, touch you all over every day, and talk with you, in person, all night long.” I had responded, “you don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Olivia’s third surprise for our Mentone adventure was her planned activity Wednesday morning. Since our first trip here less than a week ago Olivia had tracked down Dr. Susan Ayers. She was now living in Gulf Shores, a widow after losing her husband Travis to a freak car accident. I suspect the two, Dr. Ayers and Olivia, had made good use of the occasion with Olivia leading with a sincere apology. From what I had gathered, Olivia and Dr. Ayers had butted heads as the young teen, zealous for Christ, had argued with the evolutionary biologist over facts from the natural world and how they clearly conflicted with what the Bible claimed.
No matter, Olivia had come away with enough information to lead us to Ellen and Ruthie’s Rock of Ages, a real giant of a rock that supposedly jutted out from the mountain high above DeSoto Falls just south of where Olivia and I had spent three hours Thursday. Dr. Ayers’ directions were spot on. We found the Rock of Ages with hardly any trouble at all. Our day spent there couldn’t have been better. If Olivia and I were at all lacking any degree of commitment to each other before we set foot on the giant rock, three hours later, there was no doubt. No doubt, Ellen and Ruthie, had discovered the fountain of love.
Jerry’s email arrived late Wednesday night, shortly after Olivia and I returned from Mentone. He explained his change of holiday plans which included him working most all week and then taking off a few days beginning Monday, January 8th. It was fine with me as if I had any influence on Jerry’s schedule.
Jerry’s altered working scheduled was the only good news his email contained. “G & H are foreign to B, and I, E, F & B are four peas in a pod.” Slowly, I reread the two statements. G and H, the Robert Miller samples, are not a match for B, Paul Cummins. Randy Miller was not Paul’s biological father. I wished that Jerry hadn’t used the word, ‘foreign,’ but I had little doubt what he meant. Then, as though I had missed it the first time, when I simply had cruised through Jerry’s math-like equation, I nearly fell to the floor. Sample I, Walter Tillman’s DNA, matches both of Olivia’s samples, the E and F samples, and the B sample from Paul Cummins. This meant only one thing, that Paul Cummins was Walter’s son. And, Olivia Kaye Tillman, Walter’s only daughter, was the mother of Paul Cummins.
My blood began to boil. I hated clichés, I hated Walter Tillman, and I almost hated ever having moved to Boaz, Alabama, including meeting Olivia. Now, I knew why I had been almost enthralled with the story of Roy Moore and what he had allegedly done to that 14-year-old girl almost forty years ago.
I also now knew why Olivia had never told me the truth. She was a victim of the worst kind. She had been raped by her own father. She had become pregnant by a man who claimed to love her and to love God with all his heart. I didn’t have a clue as to what I would do with this information. One thing I never doubted, was that I had to someway reveal to Olivia that I was still her protector, just like I was so, so long ago at that Valentine’s dance when another predator was touching the one girl who was eternally destined to be mine and mine alone.
The Pencil-Driven Life 