Chapter 1 Past
It was the hottest day in May. I was still fairly new to the area, but I was claiming it — the summer of ’65 was going to be “my summer.”
My mom, Ellie, and my dad, Eli, had moved us to Alabama early this year.
We Yankees had no business this far past the Maryland state line — or so the locals liked to say, but Dad had a government contract—something between the U.S. Navy and NASA, some top-secret project.
I never asked, and he never shared. Whatever it was, it kept him busy, and it brought us to Shay.
My mom and dad seemed to be adjusting just fine, but I still struggled to see where I belonged.
I hadn’t made many friends—unless you counted Molly Stoll. And really, she was all I needed.
Molly was the kind of girl who turned heads the moment she walked into a room.
Her bright red hair hung long, like theater curtains before a show.
Freckles covered nearly every inch of her pale skin, and her outfits were as loud and full of life as she was.
We met in drama club — the only one still open after my mom insisted, “It’ll help you make friends.”
Molly belonged in the spotlight; I was happier behind the scenes, pinning costumes and sketching backdrops. She commanded attention, and I preferred to stay in the shadows — somehow, we just worked. And in a town that didn’t take kindly to new faces, I appreciated her more than she probably knew.
It was the first day of summer; unlike the milder summers in Maryland; the Alabama heat was unforgiving. My Northern roots run deep, and I still wasn’t used to triple-digit temperatures or the brutality of Southern humidity.
As a defense against the punishing heat, Molly and I had planned to head down to the lake and find some relief.
I knew I’d be borrowing one of her swimsuits, so I didn’t even bother packing one. I just grabbed a towel and my radio.
I was still walking around in my robe when my reflection caught my eye. My hair was already starting to frizz.
If you’ve ever found yourself in a Southern state between May and October, you know—no hairstyle stands a chance against the humidity.
Not even Beetle’s Hairspray could compete.
After trying everything to tame it, I gave up, tied my hair into a sloppy braid, then slipped on my favorite yellow-and-blue striped tank top, white button-down shorts, and my trusty Keds.
Mom was just getting to the kitchen as I made it down the stairs. I passed the doorway and hollered, “I’m off to Molly’s! Be back later. Love you!”
I was barely out the door when I heard her call out from behind the fridge door,
“Bristol Anne, watch out for snakes—try to be back by dinner! Love you lots!”
…
The screen door slammed behind me, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. The heat was suffocating; it took a moment, but I finally caught my breath.
Mom needed to use the car today, so I hopped on my bike and set off for Molly’s.
I lived near the outskirts of Shay, but she lived just close enough to make it a quick ride.
Thirty minutes if I walked, twenty if I pedaled fast.
I decided to take the usual route: past the strawberry fields, a left at Neal’s Diner, then the long stretch by the Newsome Estate.
From there, it was just a few yards to Molly’s front porch.
I was passing Neal’s when I realized I didn’t grab breakfast; my stomach rumbled at the smell of freshly made biscuits and bacon that filled the air.
Neal’s Diner had been around for quite some time.
It didn’t exactly match the white-columned banks and brick law offices that lined the town square, but it had a charm all its own.
The light blue paint on the exterior was chipping in places, and the large mural of Shay had begun to fade with time.
Inside, wood-paneled walls and décor—like something straight out of Neal’s great-grandma’s house—were a dead giveaway that this was a true small-town staple.
The red booths had seen better days, and years of bacon grease clung to the kitchen walls.
It wasn’t much to look at, but the food could make any Southerner feel like they were back in their mawmaw’s kitchen on a Sunday afternoon.
Neal—just Neal, as he often reminded me—was the first smile to welcome me to Shay.
After we’d unpacked what we could that first day in town, we stopped in for a bite.
Though he was born and raised in Shay, Neal loved old talk with new folks.
And with a blatant disregard for the Southern tradition of being called Mr., he insisted on being treated like an old friend.
It wasn’t much cooler inside the diner, but any break from the Alabama heat was good enough for me. Trying to avoid having my legs stick to the seat, I slid carefully onto a barstool to place a to-go order — a butter biscuit with a slice of cheese for me and a fried egg sandwich for Molly.
As I sat there waiting, my eyes drifted toward something I’d seen a hundred times but never really noticed.
It was always just there—in the background while Molly and I laughed, or when my parents and I came in for dinner.
But today, for the first time, I really looked at it—The Wall, as Neal called it, tucked beside the register and the newspaper stand.
It was where the locals pinned up pictures and newspaper clippings—stories about football victories, old war vets, town events, and, of course, the usual small-town gossip.
Things like: “Mrs. Sarah Smith’s famous strawberry pie wins the blue ribbon for the fifth year in a row—coincidence, or something more?”
At first, it all seemed harmless enough—but the longer I looked, the more one name kept popping up: Phil Newsome.
His name was everywhere in Shay. He was the County Commissioner—had been for years, and before that, his father held the job. The way folks talked, you’d think the Newsomes ran the whole town.
People admired him; looked up to him. Around here, if something good happened, chances were Phil Newsome had something to do with it—or at least folks liked to believe so.
I kept scanning the wall until one article in particular caught my eye. It was a photo of a young Matthew Paul Newsome—Phil’s son. I’d heard his name before. He and his brother, Nick, were well known around Shay.
The article told how Paul, the youngest Newsome boy, had saved a little girl from drowning at Lake Sanders. He’d jumped from a moving boat, swam several yards, dragged her to shore, and performed CPR until help arrived. Paul was a true local hero.
And, like any normal seventeen-year-old girl would notice—he wasn’t bad to look at either. Curly blond hair, a nice smile, and eyes that could make a girl stumble over her words.
I’d seen him at school a time or two. He was a grade below me—not that it mattered.
I noticed there were other articles pinned just behind the others. I reached to move them aside, but was stopped when Neal shouted from the back,
“Food’s ready, Bri!”
My attention turned from the headlines to the register, where Neal’s nephew was holding up a white paper sack. I paid for my food and hollered toward the back, “Thanks, Neal!”
With my to-go bag in hand, I headed toward the door.
Just as I reached for the handle, someone pulled it open from the other side.
I stumbled forward—and practically tripped into the arms of the person holding it.