Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)
Bette Lee Crosby
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
For I know the plans I have for you declares The Lord…
Plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future…
Jeremiah 29-11
Writing a novel is never easy; writing a novel that explores the truth of people offers an even greater challenge and I could not have done it alone. Every day I thank Our Heavenly Father for blessing me with the talent to do this and providing the daily inspiration that motivates me to write stories about the good and bad of life. I hope you’ll forgive me when my characters use profanity; it’s part of who they are. Without exposure to the darker aspects of humankind, there is no barometer by which to measure the goodness, generosity and love we have all been gifted with.
I want to thank the people who have contributed to this book. I am extremely grateful to Naomi Blackburn for her guidance on storyline and manuscript evaluation. She is an amazing talent with a sharp eye for quickly identifying the flaws in a character or storyline. I also want to thank my Editor Ekta Garg, a genius in her own right. Ekta rights my wrongs without ever losing sight of the Character’s Southern voice. A special thank you goes to Coral Russell for the million and one things she does to keep the promotion schedule running smoothly. Coral is not only my Literary Assistant, she is my right arm and I would be lost without her.
I would be extremely remiss were I not to thank Kathleen Valentine of Valentine-Design.com for the beauty of this cover and for creating a unique brand that I shall carry forward. She is a most talented designer with a uncanny ability to capture the essence of both story and author. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Daniel Blanchard for formatting this book and making it user friendly in all e-book venues.
A very special thank you goes to all the Gals at my BFF Clubhouse, a fan club that is more about friendship than you might think possible. I have been extremely blessed in knowing each of these gals. They are avid readers, astute listeners, caring friends and an unending source of inspiration. The ladies in this group are so supportive and special that I find myself sprinkling their names throughout many of my books.
Lastly, I thank Dick, who simply hates when I refer to him as Richard. He is my husband, my life partner, my business partner and my reason for living. He listens when I need someone to listen, and offers sage advice when I tend toward irrational. I am truly blessed in working with, living with and loving such a husband.
For The Pence Family
Who showed me the joy that comes
with believing.
As It Was…
On an icy cold November morning in 1956, Bartholomew Jones died in the Poynter Coal Mine. His death came as no surprise to anyone. He was only one of the countless men forever lost to the mine. They were men loved and mourned by their families, but to the world they were faceless, nameless people, not worthy of mention in the Charleston Times.
Morning after morning those men descended into the belly of the mountain, into a world of black dust that clung to their skin with a fierceness that no amount of scrubbing could wash away. In the winter the sky was still black when they climbed into the trolley cart that carried them into the mountain. And when they returned twelve hours later, daylight had already come and gone.
None of the men complained. They were the lucky ones, they told one another. They were the ones who slept easy. Their family had food on the table and coal for the stove when winter blasted its way across the ridge of the mountain.
At one time Bartholomew thought he could beat the odds, break the chain of events that carried itself through generation after generation. His daddy had grown up in the mines, starting when he was barely big enough to carry a bucket of scrap coal from the chute to the hopper. His granddaddy had done the same. It was the way of life, a dirty, lung-polluting job handed down from grandfather to father and ultimately to son.
But Bartholomew had different plans.
In 1932 he left home to join the navy. “Go,” his daddy said happily. “Go and don’t ever look back.” A life built on a hunched back and blackened skin was not something any man wished for his son, and even though it meant he might never see the boy again he was glad.
After two months of basic training Bartholomew was assigned to the Norfolk Navy Yard and for the next six years he loaded and unloaded machine parts on the ships that sailed in and out of the port.
Norfolk was where he met and married Ruth.
It was love at first sight. Ruth was in town visiting her sister, and as fate would have it he happened to be standing in back of them while the girls waited to buy tickets to see “The Big Broadcast” with Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour. To Bartholomew’s eye Ruth was far prettier than Dorothy Lamour, and he said so ten minutes after they’d struck up a conversation.
“Aw, go on,” she’d said with a smile.
As they eventually made their way down the aisle of the strand, Bartholomew followed the girls. Before they’d gone nine rows in Ruth pointed to a spot with three empty seats together. “Let’s sit here,” she said. She looked back at Bartholomew, an invitation in her smile.
After the movie Bartholomew took Ruth and her sister, Anita, for ice cream sodas. Before it came time to pay the check, he was in love. Forever, eternally, and deeply in love. With her soft brown eyes and lips that fairly begged to be kissed, Ruth was as warm as a wool coat on a blustery day.