Chapter One
Isley
Present Day
I look at the people milling around. Fourth of July in Balsam Ridge has always been one of my favorite holidays. People come from all over Tennessee to enjoy a long weekend in the valley and to take part in our Independence Day celebration, which kicks off with an afternoon festival and picnic here at the fairgrounds, followed in the evening by a patriotic parade and fireworks show.
I can still see my brothers and me in our bathing suits, running through the splash pad, while Daddy helps man one of the Ducks Unlimited tables and Mom hands out ice cream bars with the ladies from her club.
This is my first time pitching in at the town’s rotary club table in over a decade. My mother is the president of the club this year, and they are passing out miniature flags and red, white, and blue glow sticks for everyone to wave during tonight’s parade.
My father thought volunteering would be the perfect time for me to get out and shake a few hands and get better acquainted with the town’s voters.
So, along with the other goodies, I’m handing out homemade cookies with buttons and flyers, featuring a photo of me along with the words Vote for Paysour .
Right after high school, I left Balsam Ridge to attend college in Louisiana. Since obtaining my degree in social work, I worked as the director of homeless services and strategy for the City of New Orleans Mayor’s Office. Reporting to the mayor’s chief of staff, I was responsible for forming a team that developed strategies and created programs and services, collaborating with local private and nonprofit partners, that helped improve the ability of city departments and external agencies to make the enormous homelessness problem in target populations in the city brief, rare, and nonrecurring. In addition to being tasked to come up with ideas for improving government performance and assisting with initiatives to address the issue of affordable housing in New Orleans.
It was a position that I loved and thrived in. So much so that the mayor herself urged me to run for a city council position. I was ahead in the polls and a shoo-in to win the nomination when I received the call from my father, informing me that my mother, Evelyn Paysour, had been diagnosed with stage 2B breast cancer and would be undergoing surgery in three weeks.
The world stopped at that moment. My mother. The woman who led our family with quiet strength and the utmost dignity was sick? I didn’t think I could recall her ever having so much as a head cold when we were growing up.
After grappling with the options, I withdrew from the councilman race. Both my brothers had moved away from Balsam Ridge as well, and they were now married with young children. It was a no-brainer for me, the only girl and the only single sibling, to be the one to help my parents as Mom underwent treatment.
I resigned from my job, packed up my life, and returned to Balsam Ridge the day before Mom’s surgery. After the double mastectomy and axillary surgery to remove the lymph nodes under her left arm, she did eight cycles of chemo, and I held her hand through it all.
That was over two years ago. It was a rough and bumpy road, full of sickness and fear, but thank God, she is now in remission and cancer-free.
I had intended to return to New Orleans once she was on her feet, but as I became more and more acclimated to life back in Tennessee, I began to recognize the need for improvements in policy and government performance right here in Balsam Ridge. When the town’s longtime mayor announced earlier this year that he was choosing retirement and would not be running for reelection, my father encouraged me to add my name to the ballot.
After careful csideration and with no other interested parties in sight, I decided to do just that.
Mayor Gentry is a good man who has served this community well, but it’s time to shake things up in the valley and breathe new life into the office.
And that’s exactly what I intend to do.
“Jeez, it’s so hot out here,” my best friend, Brandee, whines as she fans herself with one of the flyers.
She went to work in the office of my father’s wood mill company, Paysour Lumber, after we graduated high school while getting her business degree from the local community college. She stayed until he retired and sold the company, and is the only person other than my parents, I kept in contact with through the years and has become my self-appointed unofficial campaign manager.
I slide my eyes to her.
“It’s your and Daddy’s fault we’re out here. So, suck it up.”
She sighs as she fishes an ice cube from her Styrofoam cup and runs it over the back of her neck.
I point to the cup. “You know that’s bad for the environment, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “I know, but Styrofoam is the only thing that keeps a drink cold enough so ice doesn’t melt and water it down, and it doesn’t sweat.”
“Still the bad choice,” I chime.
“Whatever. We can’t all be as environmentally conscientious as you.” She raises two fingers. “I solemnly swear to reuse this offending cup over and over until it disintegrates into a white powder, so help me God.”
I don’t really care if she uses Styrofoam. There are bigger fish to fry. It’s just fun to give her a hard time.
“How much longer does this event last?” she asks.
I look down at my watch. “One hour.”
“I swear it’s been one hour to go for the last four hours.”
I laugh at her as I plant a smile on my face and hand a cookie, button, and flyer to Hal Fogle, owner of a motorcycle repair business, Fogle’s Speed Shop.
Hal is an older gentleman, and his shop has been a part of the valley’s landscape for decades. He and his wife have two sons and two daughters. All of whom are still living, working, and voting in Balsam Ridge.
“Hi, Mr. Fogle. I hope you’re enjoying your afternoon.”
“I am. What’s this now?” he asks as he looks over the flyer.
“I’m running for mayor in the upcoming election, and I’d love it if I could count on your support,” I explain.
“And she’d also love it if you consented to her campaign team placing a yard sign in front of your business,” Brandee chirps.
At that moment, Mayor Gentry exits the restroom across the lawn and begins walking in our direction.
He has been in office since I was little. He and his wife were like surrogate grandparents to us all. She passed away a little over six years ago, and according to my mother, he is now dating Leona Tilson.
“Mayor, I hear Isley here is planning to fill your vacant office next year,” Mr. Fogle tells him.
“Hi, Hal. Yes, Isley is one of the candidates vying for the job.”
“One of?” I ask.
As far as I’m aware, I’m the only candidate up for the position.
“I guess you haven’t heard. Langford Tuttle filed a nominating petition with the County Election Commissions office last week,” Mayor Gentry informs me.
Langford Tuttle?
I glance at Brandee, whose eyes have gone wide, and she shrugs.
“No, sir, I didn’t hear,” I say through gritted teeth.
Langford Tuttle is the oldest son of Hilton and Sara-Beth Tuttle. We went to school together. He was in my brother, Everette’s graduating class, which was a year after my oldest brother, Heath and two years ahead of me and Brandee.
Back then, our father and Langford’s father were bitter enemies who locked horns over everything. He and his brothers were constantly fighting with my brothers, and Langford in particular was the bane of my existence, but I haven’t given him much thought in years.
“I, for one, look forward to seeing what each of you brings to the table,” Mayor Gentry admits.
I look up into his kind eyes. With his cotton-white hair and weathered skin and jolly outlook, he reminds me of Santa Claus.
Who doesn’t like Santa?
“I look forward to convincing you both that I’m the woman for the job,” I tell him and Hal.
“I’m sure you’re more than capable. Your father brags about you all the time,” Mayor Gentry says.
They move along to the next table, where ladies from the church auxiliary are selling sparklers to fund new uniforms for the youth softball team.
I turn to Brandee.
“I can’t believe Langford Tuttle is throwing his hat in the ring. The man has zero experience,” she mutters.
“Oh, I can. He wants the ear of the city council to propel forward his agenda. Daddy said the Tuttles have been pushing to have the land off Hickory Camp Road rezoned,” I tell her.
“Rezoned for what?”
“I don’t know, but I bet it has something to do with that ski resort of his.”
“Speak of the devil,” she whispers while motioning behind me with her chin.
I turn to find Langford and his brother Graham approaching the table.
“Hello, ladies,” Graham greets.
“Hi,” I say as I grab a couple of flags from the bin on the table and hold them out.
Graham takes the offered favors.
“Have a happy Fourth,” I quip.
Langford looks down and starts to flip through the flyers. When I lay my hand on top of the stack, his eyes snap up to mine, and the bastard grins.
There was a time when that smile pointed in my direction would have caused my heart to skip a beat. But that time has long passed. Now, it makes me want to slap those stupid dimples off his face. They’re deceitful and don’t belong there anyway.
All the Tuttle boys have dimples. Inherited from their grandfather. Those dimples made all the girls in town swoon when we were teenagers, and honestly, they were charming on all of them but Langford.
With his tall frame, massive chest, bulging biceps, and square jaw, covered with a close-shaved beard, the dimples just look out of place. Too boyish for his rugged appearance.
Brandee interrupts our staredown by shoving the tray of cookies in front of him. “Cookie?” she asks.
His eyes leave me and take her in.
“I’m Brandee Chatlee. You probably don’t remember me.”
“Of course, we do. It’s good to see you, Brandee,” Graham says, and I swear I see her swoon at his words.
The silly bitch. Everyone knows that Graham is engaged to one of our former classmates and Leona’s daughter, Taeli Tilson.
I elbow her in the side, and she blinks, then narrows her eyes and focuses them on Langford.
“I’m Isley’s campaign manager, and we plan to crush you. So, you’d better bring your A game, bucko,” she quips.
“Did you just call me bucko?” Langford asks her.
She sighs. “Yep. I did. Sorry about that. I’ve been buried in old-school Southern lingo research. You know, so we can relate to the older voters. I might have unintentionally veered into old Western cowboy lingo territory. It was a rabbit hole,” she explains. “Anyway, cookie?” She waves the tray at them.
“Yes, please, have one,” I insist.
Langford looks at the tray skeptically.
“Oh, come on, Tuttle. A big, strong man like you isn’t afraid of a cookie, are you? I made them myself. My own secret recipe,” I urge.
He licks his lips and brings his eyes to me. “The secret isn’t arsenic, is it?”
Brandee howls with laughter, smothering it with a cough. She sets the tray down and starts to pound her chest before turning away.
“You don’t trust me?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Jerk,” I mumble.
“I’m not a jerk. I just think it’s best to be honest with people.”
“That’s a refreshing approach for a politician,” I say.
“I’m not one.”
“I’m sorry, did you not just announce that you are running against me in the mayoral race?”
“I did.”
I lean over the table and look him straight in the eye. “Nope. No arsenic. I don’t need to poison you. I’m going to beat you fair and square,” I say as sweetly as possible.
Langford picks up one of the cookies and takes a bite, chewing it slowly without looking away from me.