- Publisher: Simon & Schuster
- Release Date: 2009, 2010
- ISBN-13: 978-1439177648
- Available Formats: Audio, e-Book, Print
The year is 1934. With the country in the stranglehold of drought and economic depression, Ella Barron runs her Texas boardinghouse with an efficiency that ensures her life will be kept in balance. Between cooking and cleaning for her residents, she cares for her ten-year-old son, Solly, a sweet but challenging child whose misunderstood behavior finds Ella on the receiving end of pity, derision, and suspicion. When David Rainwater arrives at the house looking for lodging, he comes recommended by a trusted friend as “a man of impeccable character,” but Ella senses that admitting Mr. Rainwater will bring about unsettling changes. However, times are hard, and in order to make ends meet, Ella’s house must remain one hundred percent occupied. So Mr. Rainwater moves into her house…and impacts her life in ways Ella could never have foreseen. The changes are echoed by the turbulence beyond the walls of the boardinghouse. Friends and neighbors who’ve thus far maintained a tenuous grip on their meager livelihoods now face foreclosure and financial ruin. In an effort to save their families from homelessness and hunger, farmers and cattlemen are forced to make choices that come with heartrending consequences. The climate of desperation creates a fertile atmosphere for racial tensions and social unrest. Conrad Ellis — privileged and spoiled and Ella’s nemesis since childhood — steps into this arena of teeming hostility to exact his vengeance and demonstrate the extent of his blind hatred and unlimited cruelty. He and his gang of hoodlums come to embody the rule of law, and no one in Gilead, Texas, is safe. Particularly Ella and Solly. In this hotbed of uncertainty, Ella finds Mr. Rainwater a calming presence. She is moved by the kindness he shows other boarders, Solly…and Ella herself. Slowly, she begins to rely on his soft-spokenness, his restraint, and the steely resolve of his convictions. And on the hottest, most violent night of the summer, those principles will be put to the ultimate test.
“By any chance, is your pocket watch for sale?” The old man raised his head. The woman asking about his watch was leaning across the glass display case separating them. Inside the case were snuffboxes, hatpins, razors with bone handles, saltcellars with their dainty sterling silver spoons, and various pieces of jewelry recently acquired at an estate sale. But the woman’s focus was on his watch. He guessed the woman and her husband to be in their midforties. To them the gold timepiece probably looked dapper and quaint, Rockwellian. The couple were dressed in the preppy fashion of country club members. Both were trim and tanned, and they looked good together, as though they had come as a set, the man as handsome as his wife was attractive. They had arrived in a sleek SUV, which looked out of place on the dusty gravel parking lot in front of the antiques store. In the half hour they’d been there, several items in his inventory had attracted their interest. The things they had decided to purchase were of good quality. As their appearances indicated, they had discriminating taste. The old man had been listing the items on a sales receipt when his customer posed the question about his pocket watch. He laid a protective hand over it where it rested against his vest and smiled. “No, ma’am. I couldn’t part with my watch.” She had the confidence of a pretty woman who was accustomed to beguiling people with her smile. “Not for any price? You don’t see pocket watches like that these days. The new ones look…well, new. Shininess makes them appear phony and cheap, doesn’t it? A patina, like that on yours, gives it character.” Her husband, who’d beenbrowsing the bookshelves, joined them at the counter. Like his wife, he leaned across the display case to better inspect the watch’s workmanship. “Twenty-four-karat gold?” “I would imagine so, although I’ve never had it appraised.” “I’d take it without having it appraised,” the man said. “I wouldn’t consider selling it. Sorry.” The shopkeeper bent over the case and continued to painstakingly write up their purchases. Some days the arthritis in his knuckles made handwriting difficult, but what place did a computer have in an antiques store? Besides, he distrusted them. He did the arithmetic the old-fashioned way, carrying over the two and arriving at his total. “With tax, it comes to three hundred sixty-seven dollars and forty-one cents.” “Sounds fair enough.” The man pinched a credit card out of a small alligator wallet and slid it across the top of the case. “Add two bottles of Evian, please.” He went to the sleek refrigerated cabinet with a glass door. It had no place in an antiques store, either, but thirsty browsers stayed to browse longer if drinks were available, so the refrigerator was the shopkeeper’s one small concession to modernity. “On the house,” he told his customer. “Help yourself.” “That’s awfully nice of you.” “I can afford it,” he told them with a smile. “This is my biggest single sale of the weekend.” The man took two bottles of water from the refrigerator and passed one to his wife, then signed the credit card receipt. “Do you get a lot of traffic off the interstate?” The store owner nodded. “People who’re in no particular hurry to get where they’re going.” “We noticed your billboard,” the woman said. “It caught our attention, and, on the spur of the moment, we decided to take the exit.” “The rental on that billboard is expensive as all get-out. I’m glad to know it’s working.” He began carefully wrapping their purchases in sheets of tissue paper. The man took a look around the shop, glanced out at the parking lot, which was empty except for his own gas guzzler, and asked, somewhat doubtfully, “Do you do a good business?” “Fair to middling. The store’s more a hobby than anything. It keeps me active, keeps my mind sharp. Gives me something to do in my retirement.” “What line of work were you in?” “Textiles.” “Were antiques always an interest?” the woman asked. “No,” he admitted sheepishly. “Like most things in life, this” — he raised his hands to indicate the shop — “came about unexpectedly.” The lady pulled forward a tall stool and sat down. “It sounds like there’s a story.” The old man smiled, welcoming her interest and the opportunity to chat. “The furnishings from my mother’s house had been in storage for years. When I retired and had time to sort through everything, I realized I didn’t have any use for most of the stuff, but I thought other people might. So I started selling off china and doodads. Gradual like, at weekend flea markets and such. I wasn’t all that ambitious, but, as it turned out, I was a pretty good merchant. “Soon friends and acquaintances began bringing me items to sell on consignment. Almost before I knew it, I’d run out of space in the garage and had to rent this building.” He shook his head, chuckling. “I just sort of fell into becoming an antiques dealer. But I like it.” He grinned at them. “Keeps me occupied, keeps me in spending money, and I get to meet nice folks like y’all. Where’s your home?”They told him they were from Tulsa and had been to San Antonio for a long golf weekend with friends. “We’re not on a deadline to get home, so when we saw your sign, we decided to stop and take a look. We’re furnishing our lake house with antiques and rustics.” “I’m glad you stopped.” He passed the woman a business card with the shop’s logo on it. “If you change your mind about that Spode tureen you spent so much time considering, call me. I ship.” “I just might.” She ran her finger over the name embossed on the card as she read it aloud. “Solly’s. That’s an unusual name. First or last?” “First. Short for Solomon, after the wise king in the Old Testament.” He smiled ruefully. “I’ve often wondered if my mother had second thoughts about that choice.” “That’s twice you’ve mentioned your mother.” The woman’s smile was warmer, even prettier, when she wasn’t using it to try to finagle her way. “You must have been very close to her. I mean, I assume she’s no longer living.” “She died in the late sixties.” He reflected on how long ago that must sound to this couple. They would have been babies. “Mother and I were very close. I miss her to this day. She was a lovely woman.” “Is Gilead your home?” “I was born here, in a big yellow house that had belonged to my maternal grandparents.” “Do you have a family?” “My wife passed on eight years ago. I have two children, a boy and a girl. Both live in Austin. Between them, they’ve given me six grandchildren, the oldest of which is about to get married.” “We have two sons,” the woman said. “Both are students at Oklahoma State.” “Children are a joy.” The woman laughed. “As well as a challenge.” Her husband had been following their conversation while examining the selections in the bookcase. “These are first editions.” “All signed and in excellent condition,” the shopkeeper said. “I picked them up at an estate sale not long ago.” “Impressive collection.” The man ran his finger along the row of book spines. “Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. A Steinbeck. Norman Mailer. Thomas Wolfe.” He turned to the merchant and grinned. “I should have left my credit card out.” “I also take cash.” The customer laughed. “I’ll bet you do.” His wife added, “For everything except your pocket watch.” The old man slipped the fob through the buttonhole on his vest and cupped the watch in his palm. It hadn’t lost a second since he’d last wound it. Time had yellowed the white face, but the slight discoloration gave it a richer look. The black hands were as thin as the filaments of a spider’s web. The long hand had a sharp arrow point. “I wouldn’t take anything for it, ma’am.” Softly she said, “It’s invaluable to you.” “In the strictest sense.” “How old is it?” the man asked. “I don’t know for certain,” replied the shopkeeper, “but its age isn’t what makes it meaningful to me.” He turned it facedown and extended his hand to them so they could read the inscription on the back of the gold case. “August eleventh, 1934,” the woman read aloud. Then looking back at him, she asked, “What does it commemorate? An anniversary? Birthday? Something exceptional?” “Exceptional?” The old man smiled. “Not particularly. Just very special.” When Ella Barron woke up that morning, she didn’t expect it to be a momentous day. Her sleep hadn’t been interrupted by a subconscious premonition. There had been no change in the weather, no sudden shift in the atmosphere, no unusual sound to startle her awake. As on most mornings, sleep released her gradually a half hour before daylight. She yawned and stretched, her feet seeking cool spots between the sheets. But catching another forty winks was out of the question. To indulge in such a luxury would never have crossed her mind. She had responsibilities, chores that couldn’t be shirked or even postponed. She lay in bed only long enough to remember what day of the week it was. Wash day. She quickly made her bed, then checked on Solly, who was still deep in slumber. She dressed with customary efficiency. With no time for vanity, she hastily twisted her long hair into a bun on the back of her head and secured it with pins, then left her bedroom and made her way to the kitchen, moving quietly so as not to awaken the others in the house. This was the only time of day when the kitchen was quiet and cool. As the day progressed, heat was produced by the cookstove. Heat seeped in from outside through the screened door and the window above the sink. Even Ella’s own energy acted as a generator. Proportionately with the thermometer, the noise level rose, so that by suppertime, the kitchen, which was the heart of the house, took on a pulsating life of its own and didn’t settle into cool repose until Ella extinguished the overhead light for the final time, most often hours after her boarders had retired. This morning, she didn’t pause to enjoy either the relative coolness or the silence. Having put on her apron, she lit the oven, put the coffee on to brew, then mixed the biscuit dough. Margaret arrived right on time, and after removing her hat and hanging it on the peg inside the door, and gratefully taking a tin cup of sweetened coffee from Ella, she went back outside to fill the washing machine with water for the first load of laundry. The prospect of buying an electric-powered washing machine was so remote that Ella didn’t even dream about it. For her foreseeable future she must continue using the one with the hand-crank wringer that had been her mother’s. Suds and rinse water from the tub were drained into a ditch that ran alongside the shed where the washer was housed. On a summer day like today, the washing shed became stifling by midmorning. But wet laundry seemed heavier when one’s hands were raw and numb from cold during the winter months. In any season, laundry days were dreaded. By nightfall her back would be aching. Solly, still in his pajamas, wandered into the kitchen while she was frying bacon. Breakfast was served at eight. By nine o’clock everyone had been fed, the dishes washed, dried, and put away. Ella set a pot of mustard greens on the stove to simmer all day, cooked a pan of Faultless starch, then, taking Solly with her, went outside to hang up the first basket of laundry that Margaret had washed, rinsed, and wrung out. It was almost eleven o’clock when she went inside to check on things in the kitchen. While she was adding a little more salt to the greens, someone pulled the bell at her front door. As she walked along the dim center hall, she dried her hands on her apron and glanced at herself in the wall mirror. Her face was flushed and damp from the heat, and her heavy bun had defied the pins and slipped down onto her nape, but she continued to the door without stopping to primp. On the other side of the threshold, squinting at her through the screened door, was Dr. Kincaid. “Morning, Mrs. Barron.” His white straw hat had a natty red cloth band, striated with generations of sweat stains. He removed it and held it against his chest in a rather courtly manner. She was surprised to see the doctor on her porch, but still nothing signaled her that this would be an extraordinary day. Dr. Kincaid’s office was in the center of town on Hill Street, but he also made house calls, usually to deliver a baby, sometimes to keep a contagious patient from spreading his infection through Gilead, their town of two thousand. Ella herself had summoned the doctor to the house a couple of years ago when one of her boarders fell out of his bed during the middle of the night. Mr. Blackwell, an elderly gentleman who fortunately had been more embarrassed than injured, protested even as Dr. Kincaid agreed with Ella that he probably should be thoroughly examined just as a precaution. Mr. Blackwell no longer lived with her. Shortly after that incident, his family had moved him to a home for the elderly in Waco. Mr. Blackwell had futilely protested his involuntary relocation, too. Had one of her boarders sent for the doctor today? Little in the house escaped Ella’s notice, but she’d been outside most of the morning, so it was possible that one of the sisters had used the telephone without her knowledge. “Good morning, Dr. Kincaid. Did one of the Dunnes send for you?” “No. I’m not here on a sick call.” “Then what can I do for you?” “Is this a bad time?” She thought of the clothes piled into baskets and ready to be starched, but the starch needed a while longer to cool. “Not at all. Come in.” She reached up to unlatch the screened door and pushed it open. Dr. Kincaid turned to his right and made a come-forward motion with his hat. Ella was unaware of the other man’s presence until he stepped around the large fern at the side of the front door and into her range of vision. Her first impression of him was how tall and lean he was. One could almost say he looked underfed. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black necktie, and was holding a black felt fedora. She thought his clothes looked severe and out of season for such a hot morning, especially compared to Dr. Kincaid’s seersucker suit and white hat with the red band. The doctor made the introduction. “Mrs. Barron, this is Mr. Rainwater.” He inclined his head. “Ma’am.” “Mr. Rainwater.” She moved aside and indicated for them to come inside. Dr. Kincaid allowed the other man to go in ahead of him. A few steps into the foyer, he stopped to let his eyes adjust to the relative darkness. Then he took in his surroundings as he idly threaded the brim of his hat through long, slender fingers. “In here, please.” Ella stepped around her two guests and motioned them into the formal parlor. “Have a seat.” “We thought we heard the doorbell.” The chirping voice brought Ella around. The Misses Dunne, Violet and Pearl, were standing on the bottom stair. In their pastel print dresses and old-fashioned shoes, they were virtually interchangeable. Each had a nimbus of white hair. Their veined, spotted hands clutched matching handkerchiefs, daintily hemmed and hand-embroidered by their mother, they’d told Ella. With unabashed curiosity, the two were looking beyond Ella to catch a glimpse of the visitors. Having callers was an event. “Is that Dr. Kincaid?” asked Pearl, the more inquisitive of the two. “Hello, Dr. Kincaid,” she called. “Good morning, Miss Pearl.” “Who’s that with you?” Miss Violet frowned at her sister with reproof. “We were coming down to play gin rummy until lunch,” she whispered to Ella. “Will we disturb?” “Not at all.” Ella asked them to use the informal parlor and led them to it. When they were situated at the card table, she said, “Please excuse us, ladies,” and pulled together the heavy oak pocket doors that divided the large room in half. She rejoined the two men in the formal side, which overlooked the front porch. Despite her invitation for them to sit down, they had remained standing. Dr. Kincaid was fanning himself with his hat. Ella switched on the fan on the table in the corner, directed the stream of air toward him, then motioned the men toward a pair of wingback chairs. “Please.” They sat when she did. This being summer, and wash day, she hadn’t put on stockings that morning. Embarrassed by her bare legs, she crossed her ankles and pulled her feet beneath the chair. “Would you like some lemonade? Or tea?” “That sounds awfully good, Mrs. Barron, but I’m afraid I have to pass,” the doctor said. “I’ve got patients to see at the clinic.” She looked at Mr. Rainwater. “No thank you,” he said. Returning to the kitchen would have given her an opportunity to remove her apron, which had a damp patch where she’d dried her hands, and to pin her bun more securely. But since her guests had declined the offer of a drink, she was stuck looking untidy for the remainder of their visit, the purpose of which hadn’t yet been stated. She wondered what Solly was up to and how long this unexpected meeting was going to take. She hoped Mr. Rainwater wasn’t a salesman. She didn’t have time to sit through his pitch, only to say no to whatever it was he was peddling. The smell of simmering mustard greens was strong, even here in the front parlor. The doctor withdrew a large white handkerchief from his coat pocket and used it to blot sweat from his balding head. A yellow jacket flew into the window screen and continued angrily to try to go through it. The hum of the electric fan seemed as loud as a buzz saw. She was relieved when Dr. Kincaid cleared his throat and said, “I heard you lost a boarder.” “That’s right. Mrs. Morton went to live with an ailing sister. Somewhere in eastern Louisiana, I believe.” “Quite a piece from here,” he remarked. “Her nephew came to escort her on the train.” “Nice for her, I’m sure. Have you had anyone speak for her room?” “She only left the day before yesterday. I haven’t had time to advertise.” “Well then, that’s good, that’s good,” the doctor said and began fanning himself enthusiastically, as though in celebration of something. Discerning now the purpose for their call, she looked at Mr. Rainwater. He sat leaning slightly forward with both feet on the floor. His black shoes were shined, she noticed. His thick, dark hair was smoothed back off his face, but one strand, as straight and shiny as a satin ribbon, had defiantly flopped over his broad forehead. His cheekbones were pronounced, his eyebrows as sleek and black as crows’ wings. He had startling blue eyes, and they were steady on her. “Are you interested in lodging, Mr. Rainwater?” “Yes. I need a place to stay.” “I haven’t had a chance to give the vacant room a thorough cleaning, but as soon as it’s ready, I’d be happy to show it to you.” “I’m not particular.” He smiled, showing teeth that were very white, although slightly crooked on the top. “I’ll take the room as is.” “Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t let you have it now,” she said quickly. “Not until I’ve aired the bedding, scrubbed everything, polished the floor. I have very high standards.” “For boarders or cleanliness?” “For both.” “Which is why I’ve brought him to you,” the doctor said hastily. “I told Mr. Rainwater that you keep an immaculate house and run a tight ship. To say nothing of the excellent meals your boarders enjoy. He desires a place that’s well maintained. A peaceful and quiet house.” Just then, from the direction of the kitchen, came a terrible racket followed by a bloodcurdling scream.
“…a quiet, character-driven piece that tugs at the heartstrings….Kudos to Brown for taking a chance and giving readers something different. RAINWATER is a beautiful little tale with an engaging, timeless feel…Here’s hoping Brown writes in this style again.” — Jessica Harrison – Salt Lake City’s Deseret News “…a contemporary frame adds a neat twist to this heartwarming but never cloying historical.” — Publishers Weekly (Starred Review) “A warm, nostalgic detour from the suspense queen’s comfort zone…satisfying.” — People Magazine (3 of 4 stars) “Brown, a master of contemporary romantic suspense, makes a huge genre leap…. Many will be irresistibly drawn in by this mesmerizing little fable.” — Booklist “(A) masterful tale. This beautifully written period piece [is] a parable perfect to showcase Sandra Brown’s newly displayed brilliance as a skilled lyricist as well as storyteller.” — Providence Journal Bulletin “a wonderful book and a different style unfolding page by page. I was sad to see this novel end…a can’t-put-it-down kind of read…” —A. Kirchner at Hubpages “…a home run….beautiful and moving.” — Marilyn, Petite Fours & Hot Tamales “…a leisurely-paced romantic novel that conveyed a depth of emotion and character not ordinarily found in your standard romantic fiction. RAINWATER is a significant departure from Brown’s previous novels…[Mr.] Rainwater shows Ella lessons of life that we all would do better learning, but cannot until we open ourselves to the possibility of truly unconditional love.” — Kim & Mindy: Reading for Sanity “The great “swooshing” sound you now hear is me getting sucked into this book from page one. Brown gives life to a period in history that forced many to endure hardships and injustices with dignity and strength… Her main characters ring true and have a depth and humanity that are endearing.” — Melissa from Goodreads “RAINWATER is a very different book…it is both sweet and at times, a bit grim…I hope she writes more like this.” —Charlotte, GreenChilesandRoses.blogspot.com
A Note From Sandra
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Writing RAINWATER was a labor of love. I squeezed it in between my contract books and told no one until it was finished and I sent it to my agent. While I love every book I’ve written, RAINWATER touched me as no other story of my career has.