The Sea Keeper's Daughters (Carolina Heirlooms, #3)

by Lisa Wingate

Hadley didn’t get a second chance. Teenagers need to know that sometimes, they won’t. It’s been a way of finally dealing with the pain and starting to let go.”

to-flesh bond between us, suddenly uncertain. Anger and blame were so much easier to manage than acceptance. They were hard and solid. They made good walls. Acceptance was soft. It let everything in, including the pain.

One always hopes that, in the face of evil, one might be bold and courageous, brandishing the sword of truth and the shield of justice. I know that, had it been you in that situation, the man would have quickly had cause to regret his behavior, but I don’t mind telling you that I was more toward shrinking violet than roaring lion. I thought I might faint.

face, collapsing in on myself. Tom gathered me up as I sobbed against man’s inhumanity to man. If Satan has toeholds that allow him to claw and climb from the underworld to this one, they lie in our failure to see ourselves in others.

I now understand that my purpose here is at once much greater and much smaller. As small as the tale of one human life. As great as the moment when one man finally understands what it is to walk in the shoes of another. So many of the world’s ills could be cured if only we knew the joys and hardship of others’ paths.

Back in Depression days, folks lived in them caves,’ he told us. ‘If the bank took their house, they went out and found a cave someplace. They’d build doors on the front to keep out the critters and the cold.’”

“From the time they were first discovered in these mountains, the Melungeons have been treated terribly. They’ve been pushed from their lands and farms, labeled as Free Persons of Color, and stripped of their rights. Prior to the War between the States, they were subject to being kidnapped and pressed into slavery. It’s certainly no wonder they’ve kept to themselves.”

I am once again overtaken by the conviction that, above all else, I was meant to gather the stories of the hidden people. Had I not come here, had my life remained in all the familiar rhythms, I would never have found this calling that gives me new purpose.

How sad, I think now, to live an entire life blinded by the ordinary, when the path to the extraordinary waits just beyond the well-meaning prisons of our own making.

Failure is a miserable feeling, especially after you’ve tried so hard.

Even here, so far from the cities, Roosevelt’s controversial New Deal was in evidence. There was talk of the ongoing construction of the Appalachian Scenic Highway, which would traverse the Blue Ridge from Virginia through North Carolina. In the tiny theaters of mountain hamlets, newsreels lauded progress and the ability of the country to “tighten its belt a notch” to survive hard times.

trying not to smile. Just like your mama. Was I anything like her? My mother was the best person I’d ever known. She had a nose for potential. She found it in pieces of sea glass and driftwood, and in people. She always wanted those around her to see the greatest possible versions of themselves. That passion made her a fantastic teacher. I wasn’t anything like her. But I wanted to be.

There’s no sense in getting upset. When you’re upset, you don’t think clearly. Just take a deep breath and try again. . . . Years of working with kids had taught her not to be too reactive about anything.

If Mark could take the risk on someone who’d disappointed him before, so could I. It was time I stopped protecting myself and started taking risks. A life lived with everyone at arm’s length wasn’t really a life.

where a meal plan was part of the fee. One thing I’d learned from our corporate eateries in all-inclusive resorts—when the food was complimentary, the people were easily pleased.

at the restaurant again . . . It was easier to just assume everything was all right. Sometimes self-delusion is the only thread left to keep you hanging upright. But delusions are slippery things to hold on to. I felt my grip sliding as I parked in the alley behind the Excelsior and walked around.

y’all young folks can mark my words on this, because it’s somethin’ that’ll be true as life goes on—every once in a while, you hit a minute in your life when you know the Almighty is standin’ right over your shoulder, and he’s expectin’ you to be true to yourself—to the moral fiber you got inside. And if you don’t stand up for that, you’re gonna be less of yourself tomorrow than you was today. You gotta make your decision in the blink of an eye. Who you gonna be? You gonna be less or more when you wake up tomorrow?”

Every one of the necklaces was a little different, but all the women who had the necklaces, folks called them the sea keepers, not the story keepers. They said the necklaces proved that their people come over the water on a ship, a long time in the past, all the way from England.”

Ruby, I must tell you that when one has never been the target of injustice, it is as jarring as a sudden slap.

pictured the kind of relationship Clyde must’ve had with his own sons—authoritarian, dictatorial, demanding. A boot camp for mini recruits. Resentment, resistance, cross-purposes.

What was this thing that came over me when he was around? I didn’t have a name for it. I’d never experienced anything like it, but in a strange way, it seemed as if we’d always known one another—as if we’d been waiting all these years to end up in the same place at the same time.

She must’ve loved those quiet, peaceful strolls. She must have loved this place, and him. And even though she had, that didn’t mean she’d loved my father, or me, any less. The heart is a wellspring. It has infinite capacity to manufacture love. The only barriers are the ones we put in the way.

The thing about mistakes is, they become valuable when you learn from them. I wouldn’t live my life that way anymore, always holding back, always protecting myself, always clinging to the fear that love would end in pain. It was time to let go of the damaged little girl inside the woman, and I was finally ready.

Caught in my own web of deception. Lies with the best intentions still break trust.

Stop, Whitney, this isn’t who you are. Just let it go. Let them go. Move on. Don’t sink to their level.

I was sinking, a riptide dragging me out to sea. A hand grabbed mine, pulled me up. The eyes looking down were those of my beautiful mother. My mother with her cheeks rosy, and her hair thick, her smile vibrant.

I felt her lips close to my ear, her chin cradling my head as I stood at the edge of the water and she on that glittering shore where the disease could no longer conquer her. “Don’t cry, Whit. There’s so little time. Stop running from things and to things. Be happy where you are.”

Her gaze caught mine in the last instant our fingers touched, and without speaking, there were words. Her words. No tossing everything in the closet, Whitney. Sort things out. Don’t let them pile up.

urges warred—two instinctive reactions. I needed to rely on someone, but relying on people was dangerous. At any moment, people could decide to just . . . not be there anymore.

this one as powerful as the sea itself. There was a knowing in it, the sort of knowing I’d never felt before. To love and be loved is the very thing our souls scream for from birth and every moment after, the urge to need and be needed as natural as breathing, as life-giving as breath. For the first time since childhood, I felt as though I was no longer fighting for air, but instead sailing through it with no fear of where I might land.

By closing herself away, my grandmother had gained nothing. She’d withered within her own walls long before her death. She’d worn misery like a cloak and covered those closest to her in its suffocating fabric. Living, really living, wasn’t about clinging to control but about giving it away.

Blessings aren’t fully realized until they’re passed along.

I could not say this to you at the hospital, in deference to your own grief, and in fear for Able and her child, but your sister and little Emmaline were murdered. I have no doubt of

far beyond the ability of human hands. If I had doubted that, with divine intervention, a mess can become a miracle, this project is proof. From imperfect offerings, something perfect has been born.

This is a kitchen table counseling session from back in the day. I’m being led by the nose, and part of me is aware it’s for my own good, but part of me still doesn’t like being told what’s good for me.

Sometimes you’ve gotta take a big leap to get over the hump. Clyde’s words to Joel about going away to college. But once you’re there, it’s a whale of a ride down the hill.

am not just one person. I am the sum of those who have come before me.

The best stories are the ones that become part of our own personal histories.

Those involved in “Federal One” were far ahead of their time. They were the beginning of the Civil Rights movement before there was a Civil Rights movement. They pushed toward equality for women before anyone was openly discussing equal opportunity. Their mandate was to be all-inclusive, to break down hard and fast societal boundaries, much like Kathryn Stockett’s main character does in The Help, when she interviews black maids in the South. The Federal Writers not only documented the natural wonders of the country, but the hidden lives of minorities, working women, immigrant laborers, sharecroppers, and others typically ignored by the history books. Their writings helped to inspire Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, among other classics. Sadly, much of the Federal Writers’ work was stored away as the Red Scare heated up, congressional committees held hearings to search for communist infiltrators on American soil, and World War II gripped the nation.

Most certainly, you’ll realize that so many of the things we struggle with as human beings are not unique to our generation. There are lessons to be learned from those who’ve wandered these paths before us.

the Federal Writers would be happy to know that many long-silenced voices can now be heard. May your journey be filled with great stories,

Links: Library of Congress Federal Writers’ Project information: http://www.loc.gov/rr/program/bib/newdeal/fwp.html

Manuscripts from the Federal Writers’ Project: http://www.loc.gov/collection/federal-writers-project WPA Depression-era photographs: http://www.loc.gov/pictures/collection/fsa/ Slave narratives transcriptions and recordings: http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/snhtml/snhome.html WPA posters and advertisements: http://www.loc.gov/pictures/search/?st=grid&co=wpapos