The Summer of '65 (The Seasons of Shay #1)
Prologue Present
Trying to escape the stifling heat, I rolled the windows down. The farther south I drove, the thicker it got. The earthy scent of the lake was already rising in the air — a sure sign I was getting closer.
I turned on the radio, hoping for anything to keep my nerves from creeping in.
The popular 1965 Beatle’s song “Help” was playing.
Of course. I rolled my eyes and cut it off.
Not that it was the song’s fault. It had nothing to do with the band or the song, and honestly, I could use some help — but the truth is…
that song and every song from that year reminded me of…
. That summer — the summer of ’65 — the summer that changed everything.
My mind drifted, as it did when there wasn’t enough to quiet the echoes of those days. I can’t help but wonder how something so tragic could also be the best thing that ever happened to me?
Riding over the bridge, my heart tightened. I’d spent more than a few summer days leaping from the rusty beams that have now been replaced by the new construction, trying to pretend life wasn’t a complicated mess, even then.
It’s now the one thing that connected me to the very world I’d once run from.
Just ahead, the same sign that had been there since the town’s conception came into view: Welcome to Shay, The Best Kept Secret in Alabama.
It’s full of secrets, all right — and before I end up part of any new ones, I want to get this assignment finished as quickly as possible — and get back to the life I’ve built, far from Shay, Alabama.
A small Southern lake town nestled just north of the Alabama-Florida line, Shay is the kind of place where old money runs deep, names carry weight, and outsiders who stick around too long are met with narrowed eyes and polite suspicion.
It’s full of small-town people, where everyone knows everyone, the gossip is stronger than the coffee at Neal’s Diner, and no one’s sins stay hidden for long—at least not for good.
People here like to pretend they’ve dodged the worst of Alabama’s turmoil, but all that really means is they’ve learned how to sweep someone else’s front porch with their own dirty broom — bless their hearts.
I wish I could say the only thing tying me to this place was my parents.
They are still tucked down Sweetbriar Road, past the strawberry fields, in that big white house with the wraparound porch.
It’s the picture of Southern charm — if you don’t look too closely.
I stopped calling it home a long time ago.
It’s been almost sixteen years since I’ve set foot in Shay. I’ve seen my mom plenty since then, but coming back here... that’s different. I know my mom will be excited to see me—but she also knows I’m only here for one reason: to get what I need for my article and leave.
Most people would say that I have the ‘dream job’ — I’m a journalist for a small magazine.
I travel around writing heartwarming stories about unsung town heroes, local legends, and all the feel-good, mushy pieces our readers seem to so dearly love.
I get to meet interesting people, visit new places, and share the moments that left a mark on their lives.
I guess it is a sweet gig... or at least it was until one of those stories got personal.
Why did I bring Shay back into focus? I’d tucked those memories deep, sealed them shut, and now I’m peeling them open, one by one. Maybe it’s for him. Maybe it’s for me. Either way, the ache hasn’t faded. Not even a little.