BEFORE THE FALL …
Roy Bennett stood on the highest hill where the Christmas trees grew wild, the view of the majestic North Georgia Mountains magnificent in the distance. A deflated sigh escaped him in a raspy rumble from deep within his chest as he scanned the family land stretched before him.
The vineyard was ripe for harvest, with thick foliage and heavy fruit clinging to the vines in long rows of trellised grapes. Beyond the fields stood his home, passed down from generations. The farmhouse-style dwelling arose from the solid foundation and invoked a warm and cozy feel—like a postcard from another era with its rustic charm and wrap-around front porch.
Roy thought of the many footprints that had traversed the old deck boards, the space where his ancestors, the farmhands, and his children wiped their dirty boots before entering the back door into the kitchen. A place where they sat on worn rockers and marveled at the colorful sunsets through the seasons. The congregating space where visitors gathered and sipped sweet Bennett wine in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter. A gathering place for family photos at the front entrance positioned on the wide stairs.
A gentle breeze skirted Roy’s face, the air thick with pine and musk, heartbreak and uncertainty. He filled his lungs with the verdant scent of his inherited land and struggled to keep it together. He’d trudged along the pine straw paths to get away from the daily hubbub of farm life to have a moment, just one moment—where he could wallow in self-pity and allow himself to crumble in the absence of his wife and children.
Lowering himself to the dusty trail, he gathered a handful of pine straw with calloused fingers and tossed the sharp needles one by one over the hill. With his cowboy hat perched low on his head and shading his face from the blazing sun, trickles of perspiration from his brow mixed with salty tears streaming down his cheeks.
How were they ever going to get through this?
His phone buzzed in his pocket and startled him. Swiping the back of his hand under his nose, he cleared his throat and pulled the device from his denim backside.
“Where you at, Dad?” His oldest son, Teddy, asked.
Roy leaned his free arm across a bent knee and kept his tone upbeat. “I’ll be there soon, Teddy. Y’all go on, and I’ll catch up with you. I’m finishing up with something.”
“Okay.” Teddy paused, the laughter from his other children apparent in the background. “You need any help? Are you alright?” Leave it to his firstborn to know when something was off kilter.
But Roy wasn’t about to tell his boy the truth. He was not okay.
“I’m good, Teddy. I’ll be right behind y’all.”
“Okay. See ya soon.”
Roy continued to sit silently for several minutes before mustering the strength to stand. Grunting, he rose to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips, taking in the scenic view of Bennett Farms one more time. He was weak in the knees and had to dig deep, purposefully putting one foot in front of the other, his gait slow and agonizing.
His wife, Lillian, and his kids were waiting for him at the big oak tree in the field on the other side of the long stretch of road. Her idea was to have a family picnic under the gnarled branches, close to where their ancestors were laid to rest. The lone oak was a private spot where the family held many events over the years, including picnics, so it seemed fitting.
When Roy pulled up to the rusted fence line where the gate was propped open, he could see his athletic boys running around the wide-open space throwing a football. His eyes traced the summer-faded grasses until they landed on Lillian and his only daughter, Rebecca, under the shade of the mighty tree. Mother and daughter were dressed in matching billowing sundresses and wore halos of wildflowers in their hair.
Several red and white checkered blankets were spread out under the tree with old-fashioned picnic baskets open wide with a bounty of food ready to be devoured by his hungry brood.
“Dad!” Walt shouted, gaining his attention.
Roy threw his hand up in a wave and trudged through the field toward his family with his head held high. He wasn’t about to break down in front of them. Lillian needed him to be strong. He had to be strong.
The football whizzed through the air in a perfect spiral, and Roy caught it with a grunt against his chest. His boys cheered and spread out as if waiting for him to throw the ball back. With a quick jerk of his arm, he threw the football high into the cornflower blue sky and watched as James and Hank called dibs. But Walt was too fast for them, jumping in between and stealing the ball right out from under them. Roy shook his head and chuckled, his boys’ competitive nature endearing to him. They were young and full of strength, big dreams, and loyalty. They were going to need these characteristics to get through what lay ahead.
“Nice throw,” Lillian flirted. Her angelic face beamed from underneath the circle of colorful flowers in her braided hair.
Roy offered a quick nod and averted his gaze willing himself not to fall apart by the mere sight of her.
“Come and sit,” she requested, patting the empty space.
Roy eased his tired body onto the blanket and took off his hat, his sweaty hair matted to his head.
“You want some lemonade, Daddy?” Becky asked.
“I’d love some, darlin’.” His voice cracked, and she didn’t seem to notice.
But Lillian did.
His wife leaned her head against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his sturdy bicep. Wisps of her hair caressed his cheek as he remained stoic, focused on his teenage daughter flitting and floating while playing hostess with ease.
“Let’s eat first, then we can tell them,” Lillian whispered. Her warm breath caressed the shell of his ear as he nodded. She squeezed his arm and used his body as an anchor to stand.
“Boys,” she hollered, cupping her hands at the side of her mouth. “Time to eat!”
Teddy, James, Walt, and Hank galloped like a herd of feral horses toward the oak tree, their strong athletic legs galloping with ease as they teased and taunted one another like brothers do. Laughter pinged the air, and the area underneath the branches became a flurry of hungry Bennett boys. They wiped sweat from their brows while vying for a thick sandwich and a bag of chips.
Lillian handed Roy a paper plate with his lunch. He looked at the food with no appetite but forged ahead with a big bite to remain somewhat incognito.
“Daddy? You want some strawberries?” Becky’s smile was radiant, her sweet voice slicing his heart in two.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Becky was quick on her bare feet and dumped a few luscious berries from a plastic container onto his plate.
“I’ll take some of those, Becks,” Hank requested.
“What do you say, Hank?” Lillian reminded, her motherly voice strong and authoritative.
“Please?” Hank added. His grin was boyish from ear to ear.
“Please?” Walt mimicked in a girlish tone, wrinkling his nose.
Hank punched Walt hard in the arm. “Knock it off, butthole.”
“Who are you calling a butthole?” Walt countered, rearing an arm back and fisting his hand.
“Language, boys. Knock it off,” Roy reprimanded.
“Sorry, Dad,” they said in unison.
Lillian went around the circle and gave her sons a second sandwich, the sibling squabbling doused as their hunger won out. The family turned quiet, the only sounds in the air of a crow cawing in the distance, the rustling of faded leaves in the gentle wind, and the crunching of chips.
Roy looked on, focused on each of his children with wide eyes. Chewing his sandwich slowly, he knew these were their last moments of peace. The calm before the storm.
Teddy, with his light hair and dark eyes, was his oldest. He was strong and kind, loyal to his family and his longtime girlfriend, Robyn. His second son, James, was closest in age to Ted. He was smart as a whip with a head for business, a born leader Roy could always count on.
Walt was aggressive and competitive; his middle son often broody with a short fuse. Still, he was strong and mighty, quick to take up for his brothers and sister, ready to fight to the death. Hank was the youngest Bennett son, his passion for music apparent since the tender age of eight. Roy loved hearing Hank up in the hayloft of the big red barn practicing on his beloved acoustic guitar, the country songs he penned musical poetry to his ears.
Lastly, Roy’s eyes landed on Rebecca. She was his precious “oops” baby, sweet and innocent. His only daughter was beautiful, her fair features strikingly similar to her mother’s. He couldn’t believe she on the cusp of becoming a high school freshman. Where did the time go? Over the summer, she’d morphed into a charming young lady, her kind nature and positive attitude a breath of fresh air among the chaos of his boys. Becky would do anything for all of them, and her servitude in helping her mama in the kitchen was a true gift.
“Before I hand out the cookies, I wanted to talk to y’all about something,” Lillian announced.
Roy set his plate to the side and palmed his wife’s back. Had his children noticed his trembling hands? Did they know their dearly loved mother was about to rock their entire world? His heart raced like his boys playing football earlier in the meadow, and he had to remind himself to breathe.
“What is it, Mama?” James asked, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.
All eyes focused on Lillian. Her smile was fractured, and her voice warbled with love and pure devotion as she spoke tenderly to her children. Her dark eyes were sad as she reached for Roy’s free hand and squeezed. The only thing he could do at the moment was to hold on and be strong for her.
“The cancer—it’s back.”
A resounding gasp ruptured the peace from underneath the tree.
“And it’s terminal.”
Copyright © 2023 Kelly Genelle Fletcher
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons – living or dead – is purely coincidental.
Roy Bennett stood on the highest hill where the Christmas trees grew wild, the view of the majestic North Georgia Mountains magnificent in the distance. A deflated sigh escaped him in a raspy rumble from deep within his chest as he scanned the family land stretched before him.
The vineyard was ripe for harvest, with thick foliage and heavy fruit clinging to the vines in long rows of trellised grapes. Beyond the fields stood his home, passed down from generations. The farmhouse-style dwelling arose from the solid foundation and invoked a warm and cozy feel—like a postcard from another era with its rustic charm and wrap-around front porch.
Roy thought of the many footprints that had traversed the old deck boards, the space where his ancestors, the farmhands, and his children wiped their dirty boots before entering the back door into the kitchen. A place where they sat on worn rockers and marveled at the colorful sunsets through the seasons. The congregating space where visitors gathered and sipped sweet Bennett wine in the summer and hot chocolate in the winter. A gathering place for family photos at the front entrance positioned on the wide stairs.
A gentle breeze skirted Roy’s face, the air thick with pine and musk, heartbreak and uncertainty. He filled his lungs with the verdant scent of his inherited land and struggled to keep it together. He’d trudged along the pine straw paths to get away from the daily hubbub of farm life to have a moment, just one moment—where he could wallow in self-pity and allow himself to crumble in the absence of his wife and children.
Lowering himself to the dusty trail, he gathered a handful of pine straw with calloused fingers and tossed the sharp needles one by one over the hill. With his cowboy hat perched low on his head and shading his face from the blazing sun, trickles of perspiration from his brow mixed with salty tears streaming down his cheeks.
How were they ever going to get through this?
His phone buzzed in his pocket and startled him. Swiping the back of his hand under his nose, he cleared his throat and pulled the device from his denim backside.
“Where you at, Dad?” His oldest son, Teddy, asked.
Roy leaned his free arm across a bent knee and kept his tone upbeat. “I’ll be there soon, Teddy. Y’all go on, and I’ll catch up with you. I’m finishing up with something.”
“Okay.” Teddy paused, the laughter from his other children apparent in the background. “You need any help? Are you alright?” Leave it to his firstborn to know when something was off kilter.
But Roy wasn’t about to tell his boy the truth. He was not okay.
“I’m good, Teddy. I’ll be right behind y’all.”
“Okay. See ya soon.”
Roy continued to sit silently for several minutes before mustering the strength to stand. Grunting, he rose to his feet and stood with his hands on his hips, taking in the scenic view of Bennett Farms one more time. He was weak in the knees and had to dig deep, purposefully putting one foot in front of the other, his gait slow and agonizing.
His wife, Lillian, and his kids were waiting for him at the big oak tree in the field on the other side of the long stretch of road. Her idea was to have a family picnic under the gnarled branches, close to where their ancestors were laid to rest. The lone oak was a private spot where the family held many events over the years, including picnics, so it seemed fitting.
When Roy pulled up to the rusted fence line where the gate was propped open, he could see his athletic boys running around the wide-open space throwing a football. His eyes traced the summer-faded grasses until they landed on Lillian and his only daughter, Rebecca, under the shade of the mighty tree. Mother and daughter were dressed in matching billowing sundresses and wore halos of wildflowers in their hair.
Several red and white checkered blankets were spread out under the tree with old-fashioned picnic baskets open wide with a bounty of food ready to be devoured by his hungry brood.
“Dad!” Walt shouted, gaining his attention.
Roy threw his hand up in a wave and trudged through the field toward his family with his head held high. He wasn’t about to break down in front of them. Lillian needed him to be strong. He had to be strong.
The football whizzed through the air in a perfect spiral, and Roy caught it with a grunt against his chest. His boys cheered and spread out as if waiting for him to throw the ball back. With a quick jerk of his arm, he threw the football high into the cornflower blue sky and watched as James and Hank called dibs. But Walt was too fast for them, jumping in between and stealing the ball right out from under them. Roy shook his head and chuckled, his boys’ competitive nature endearing to him. They were young and full of strength, big dreams, and loyalty. They were going to need these characteristics to get through what lay ahead.
“Nice throw,” Lillian flirted. Her angelic face beamed from underneath the circle of colorful flowers in her braided hair.
Roy offered a quick nod and averted his gaze willing himself not to fall apart by the mere sight of her.
“Come and sit,” she requested, patting the empty space.
Roy eased his tired body onto the blanket and took off his hat, his sweaty hair matted to his head.
“You want some lemonade, Daddy?” Becky asked.
“I’d love some, darlin’.” His voice cracked, and she didn’t seem to notice.
But Lillian did.
His wife leaned her head against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his sturdy bicep. Wisps of her hair caressed his cheek as he remained stoic, focused on his teenage daughter flitting and floating while playing hostess with ease.
“Let’s eat first, then we can tell them,” Lillian whispered. Her warm breath caressed the shell of his ear as he nodded. She squeezed his arm and used his body as an anchor to stand.
“Boys,” she hollered, cupping her hands at the side of her mouth. “Time to eat!”
Teddy, James, Walt, and Hank galloped like a herd of feral horses toward the oak tree, their strong athletic legs galloping with ease as they teased and taunted one another like brothers do. Laughter pinged the air, and the area underneath the branches became a flurry of hungry Bennett boys. They wiped sweat from their brows while vying for a thick sandwich and a bag of chips.
Lillian handed Roy a paper plate with his lunch. He looked at the food with no appetite but forged ahead with a big bite to remain somewhat incognito.
“Daddy? You want some strawberries?” Becky’s smile was radiant, her sweet voice slicing his heart in two.
“Sure, sweetheart.”
Becky was quick on her bare feet and dumped a few luscious berries from a plastic container onto his plate.
“I’ll take some of those, Becks,” Hank requested.
“What do you say, Hank?” Lillian reminded, her motherly voice strong and authoritative.
“Please?” Hank added. His grin was boyish from ear to ear.
“Please?” Walt mimicked in a girlish tone, wrinkling his nose.
Hank punched Walt hard in the arm. “Knock it off, butthole.”
“Who are you calling a butthole?” Walt countered, rearing an arm back and fisting his hand.
“Language, boys. Knock it off,” Roy reprimanded.
“Sorry, Dad,” they said in unison.
Lillian went around the circle and gave her sons a second sandwich, the sibling squabbling doused as their hunger won out. The family turned quiet, the only sounds in the air of a crow cawing in the distance, the rustling of faded leaves in the gentle wind, and the crunching of chips.
Roy looked on, focused on each of his children with wide eyes. Chewing his sandwich slowly, he knew these were their last moments of peace. The calm before the storm.
Teddy, with his light hair and dark eyes, was his oldest. He was strong and kind, loyal to his family and his longtime girlfriend, Robyn. His second son, James, was closest in age to Ted. He was smart as a whip with a head for business, a born leader Roy could always count on.
Walt was aggressive and competitive; his middle son often broody with a short fuse. Still, he was strong and mighty, quick to take up for his brothers and sister, ready to fight to the death. Hank was the youngest Bennett son, his passion for music apparent since the tender age of eight. Roy loved hearing Hank up in the hayloft of the big red barn practicing on his beloved acoustic guitar, the country songs he penned musical poetry to his ears.
Lastly, Roy’s eyes landed on Rebecca. She was his precious “oops” baby, sweet and innocent. His only daughter was beautiful, her fair features strikingly similar to her mother’s. He couldn’t believe she on the cusp of becoming a high school freshman. Where did the time go? Over the summer, she’d morphed into a charming young lady, her kind nature and positive attitude a breath of fresh air among the chaos of his boys. Becky would do anything for all of them, and her servitude in helping her mama in the kitchen was a true gift.
“Before I hand out the cookies, I wanted to talk to y’all about something,” Lillian announced.
Roy set his plate to the side and palmed his wife’s back. Had his children noticed his trembling hands? Did they know their dearly loved mother was about to rock their entire world? His heart raced like his boys playing football earlier in the meadow, and he had to remind himself to breathe.
“What is it, Mama?” James asked, wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.
All eyes focused on Lillian. Her smile was fractured, and her voice warbled with love and pure devotion as she spoke tenderly to her children. Her dark eyes were sad as she reached for Roy’s free hand and squeezed. The only thing he could do at the moment was to hold on and be strong for her.
“The cancer—it’s back.”
A resounding gasp ruptured the peace from underneath the tree.
“And it’s terminal.”
Copyright © 2023 Kelly Genelle Fletcher
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and plot are all either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons – living or dead – is purely coincidental.