THE HOMEPLACE Read online

  Also by Gilbert Morris

  Jacob’s Way

  Jordan’s Star

  God’s Handmaiden

  Edge of Honor

  The Spider Catcher

  Charade

  The Singing River Series

  The Homeplace

  The Dream

  ZONDERVAN

  The Homeplace

  Copyright © 2005 by Gilbert Morris

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

  Mobipocket Edition April 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-31814-9

  Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Morris, Gilbert

  The homeplace / Gilbert Morris.

  p. cm.–(Singing river series; bk. 1)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25232-0

  I. Title.

  PS3563.O8742H655 2005

  813’.54–dc22

  2005010115

  * * *

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the King James Version.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  * * *

  06 07 08 09 10 11 12 • 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  To Doug Freeman—

  It’s good to have one real hero in our family, Buddy.

  Thanks for what you and a lot of other guys did at Normandy!

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  The Venture

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  The Accident

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three

  The Miracle

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Four

  The Revenge

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Five

  The Woman

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 5

  About The Publisher

  Share Your Thoughts

  PART ONE

  The Venture

  CH A P T E R 1

  A wedge of pale sunlight slanted through the window to Lanie’s left, touching her auburn hair and bringing out a slight golden tint. She bent over the Warm Morning cookstove, opened the firebox, then with quick, economical movements removed the gray ashes with a small shovel, dumping them into a five-gallon can. She reached down into an old apple crate filled with what her dad called “rich pine”— fragments of pine knots so soaked with sap that when lit with a match they would burn like a torch.

  Piling several knots onto the grate of the firebox, Lanie took a kitchen match from a box that rested on a shelf and struck the match on the rough strip on the side. She leaned down and held the flame against the wood until the rich pine caught. Quickly she pulled small pieces of pine kindling from a box and put them on top of the blaze. She crisscrossed three smaller sticks of white oak firewood, arranging them expertly so that a draft was formed, causing them to burn evenly. She shut the firebox door and opened the draft on the stovepipe, then paused, listening to the crackle of the flames and the rush of air up the chimney. Satisfied, she turned the knob for the damper partway to slow down the fire.

  Lanie Belle Freeman paused, listening to the fire. She tucked a rebellious curl from her forehead behind her ear. At fourteen, Lanie had reached that stage when adolescence gives way to young womanhood. She was thoughtful in most things—cautious and sometimes slow to decide, but moved quickly once she made up her mind. Her faded green dress with a white-flower print revealed the curves of an emerging woman. Her arms suggested a strength unusual for one her age. Sunlight highlighted the curves of her cheeks. Her eyes were large and gray with a hint of green. They were well-shaped, widely spaced, and contemplative, but at times could flash with temper. Her lips were full and expressive, and when she smiled, a dimple appeared on her right cheek.

  She moved to a tall wooden kitchen cabinet with a gray-speckled porcelain countertop and pulled open the flour bin. “Plenty of flour,” she murmured. A thought came to her and she picked up a Big Chief notebook on the counter and crossed to a table set against the far wall just beside the icebox. As she picked up a pen and sat down at the table in a cane-bottomed chair, a smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Opening the book to a blank page, she began to write. Her handwriting was smooth, even, and neatly executed:

  April the 12th, 1928

  Lanie Belle Freeman

  600 Jefferson Davis Avenue

  Fairhope

  Stone County

  Arkansas

  America

  North America

  Earth

  Solar System

  Milky Way Galaxy

  Lanie studied what she had put down. A quizzical look touched her eyes and she smiled. “There’s just one more place to go after that, I reckon.” At the bottom of the list she added “Universe,” then studied what she had written.

  She smiled, then laughed out loud. “Now I reckon I know right where I am.”

  Closing the book abruptly, she pushed it to the back of the table and put the pen beside it. Suddenly she took a deep breath. “Ice!” she said. Whirling, she walked to the oak icebox and opened the ice compartment. All that was left was a small lump of ice. She shut the door and bent down to check the drip pan. It was almost full. She dashed out of the kitchen and down the long hall that led to the front porch, then turned right into the living room. She caught a glimpse of her brother Cody working with something in the middle of the floor, but ignored him. Going to the window, she reached up on the wall and pulled down a foot-square card that was marked on different sides in large black numbers: “25,” “50,” “75,” and “100.” She put the card in the window with the “100” upright to let the iceman know the size ice block she needed.

  “Cody,” Lanie said, turning to the boy, “go empty the drip pan from under the icebox.”

  “Aw, shoot, I’m busy, Lanie. You do it.”

  Cody Freeman did not even look up. He had a screwdriver in one hand and was assembling some sort of apparatus. At the age of eleven he spent most of his waking hours inventing things. Few ever worked, but he had unshakable confidence that someday he wo
uld be another Edison.

  “You heard what I said, Cody. Now leave that thing alone. You can come back after you empty the drip pan.”

  Cody grumbled, but got to his feet. He had the same auburn hair and gray-green eyes as Lanie, and there was a liveliness about him. He hurried down the hall, and by the time Lanie got to the kitchen, he had dragged out the drip pan and succeeded in spilling a widening pool of water on the floor.

  “You’re making a mess, Cody!”

  “Well, dang it, I can’t help it if the dumb ol’ thing’s full!”

  “If you’d empty it when you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t get full.

  Now get it out of here.”

  “I’m gonna invent something that’ll drain this dadgummed ol’ icebox so nobody’ll have to carry the dumb water out!”

  “Well, until you do, just take it out—and stop calling everything dumb.”

  Lanie held the screen door open for Cody, who walked out with the pan, leaving a trail of water behind him. After checking the firebox, Lanie nodded with satisfaction. The rich pine had caught, and the fire was blazing. Straightening, she turned the damper down a little more to lessen the air intake. She had become an expert in building fires in the wood stove and rather liked it.

  Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost three. She went to her parents’ bedroom, where her mother was sitting in a rocker beside an open window, crocheting.

  Elizabeth Ann Freeman was thirty-six. Her body was swollen with the child she was expecting, but she had retained much of her early beauty. Her children received most of their looks from her, especially the auburn hair and gray eyes. She had a beautifully shaped face with a short English nose and a slight cleft in her chin.

  “Mama, I need to know how to fix fried pies.”

  She looked up at her daughter. “Fried pies? Don’t you know how to do that?”

  “I’ve watched you, Mama, but I never learned how.”

  “Well, set down here, and I’ll tell you.”

  Lanie sat down on the bed and listened intently as her mother explained the process. She did not write anything down, for she had a phenomenal memory. Lanie noticed how tired her mother looked. Having this baby would be difficult, Lanie knew, for her mother had not borne a child for eleven years. There was a strain about her eyes, and Dr. Givens had left medicine for her. He had also left instructions that Elizabeth was to do no physical work, but should stay in bed as much as possible. Lanie had taken over the housework, with her siblings doing what they could.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound hard, Mama. I can do it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I know you can, honey. Now tell me about the contest at school. How are you doing?”

  Lanie shrugged and made a face. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m doing the best I can, but it’s gonna be real hard. There are lots of smart kids.”

  The William McKinley High School had launched a contest to reward the students with the best grades. There were other criteria, too, but grades would count most heavily. The winner in each class would receive a hundred dollars. The grand prize for the overall school winner was two hundred dollars and a silver cup, just like the athletic teams received. Being only a freshman, Lanie did not expect to win the big prize, but her grades had been outstanding in elementary school, and her mother encouraged her to throw herself into the work.

  Lanie felt insecure about her abilities. “I might have a chance to win the freshman award, but Roger Langley will win the grand prize.” Roger Langley was the son of Otis Langley, the richest man in Fairhope. He was also the idol of every girl in high school—tall, fine-looking, and as good an athlete as he was a student. “I . . . I don’t think I can do it, Mama.”

  “Of course you can! You can do anything you want to, Lanie.”

  A flush touched Lanie’s cheeks. “I can if you help me, Mama.” She laughed. “It helps to have a schoolteacher for a mother.”

  “I haven’t taught in a long time, but you and I can do it together.”

  “I’ll do the best I can, Mama. Now I’m going to make Daddy’s favorite supper—fried chicken, thickening gravy, fried okra, and fried fruit pies.”

  “He’ll love it!”

  Lanie went back to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. She turned on the radio, which was on the table beside the icebox. Her favorite program, Lum & Abner, was about to start, and she was pleased to hear the announcer say, “Well, let’s see what’s going on down in Pine Ridge . . .”

  She moved to the cabinet with its porcelain counter and began making the pies. She scooped flour into a bowl, poured salt into her hand and dumped it in, added lard, then mixed everything with her fingers, working the flour into the lard. She added water, working the dough until it formed a soft ball. She rolled out the dough on the counter and used a saucer to cut circles. Quickly she put fruit on one side of each circle. She dipped her fingers in water and wet the edges of the dough. Then she folded the dough in half and crimped the edges together with a fork to seal them.

  Lanie used both hands to lift the heavy cast-iron skillet onto the stove. After a few minutes, she heated the grease in the skillet and, using a spatula, carefully put two of the pies in the pan. She watched them fry, peeking under the edge until the crust was brown. Then she carefully turned them over. When they were done, she put the fried pies onto cloth towels made from flour sacks to drain the grease.

  She worked quickly and efficiently, frying the rest of the pies, and had just put the last batch into the warming compartment when she heard Beau begin to bark. “That must be Reverend Jones.”

  She heard footsteps on the porch and went to open the door. “Hello, Reverend.”

  “Howdy, Miss Lanie. One hundred pounds?” Reverend Jones was a large black man. He had a hundred-pound block of ice on his back, which he held there with a pair of large tongs. His leather cape kept his back dry.

  “That’s right.” Lanie smiled and opened the icebox while Reverend Jones chipped the large block into pieces that would fit inside the metal-lined compartment. He shut the door and smiled at Lanie. “That ought to last you folks a day or two.”

  “If you’ve got time, Reverend, I made apple pie yesterday, and I’ve got some tea.”

  “Why, that’d go down mighty fine, Miss Lanie.” He sat down, his massive form filling the chair. Madison Jones was not only the iceman in Fairhope, he also was pastor of Greater Mount Zion Methodist Episcopal Church, the black church in town. He watched as Lanie pulled a tin plate out of the warming box over the cookstove, cut a generous slice of pie, put it on a saucer, and then set the pie and a fork before him. She opened the icebox and chipped off enough ice to fill a large glass, then poured tea over the ice. “It’s already sweetened. We don’t have any lemon.”

  “That be mighty fine, missy. Just the way I likes it.”

  “How is Melanie doing?”

  “Oh, she doing real good! Done got over her mumps, but, of course, the rest of the chil’uns gonna get it too.”

  Lanie always asked about all eight of the reverend’s children and his wife, and that pleased the big man.

  “How your mama doin’, Miss Lanie?”

  “All right, I guess.”

  “You don’t sound too sure ’bout that.”

  “Well, she hasn’t had a baby in a long time, and the doctor doesn’t seem to . . .”

  When Madison Jones saw that she could not finish, he swallowed the pie in his mouth and said gently, “It’s gonna be all right. The good Lord’s gonna take care of your mama.”

  “I know He will. But I just worry sometimes.”

  Madison finished the pie and washed it down with the tea. “I wants to give you a promise verse for today.”

  “You always do. What is it?”

  “The Good Book, it say, ‘Our God is in the heavens; he hath done whatsoever he hath pleased.’ Dat’s in Psalm 115, verse 3. So you see, the good Lord, He’s in charge of your mama—and you and me and everybody else.”

  Lanie smiled. “Thank y
ou, Reverend. I’ll remember that.”

  Madison put out his huge hand, and Lanie put her hand in it. He held her hand in both of his and said, “Me and you, we’ll pray for your mama.”

  After the big man left, Lanie sat at the table. She unfolded a piece of paper she had in her pocket, licked the tip of a pencil, and began to write.

  The Iceman

  Everyone brings something into our house.

  Yesterday Cap’n Brown brought in a dead mouse.

  Today our iceman brought in a block of ice

  And a Bible verse—which was very nice.

  I wish I could believe in God like Reverend Jones,

  But sometimes I get scared down to my bones!

  Lanie read the verse aloud, then stuffed it into her pocket. “That’s not very good, but I can work on it tonight.”

  Ever since she could write, Lanie had been writing poems, but she didn’t show them to anyone. She could say things in poems that she couldn’t say to anyone. She glanced toward her parents’ bedroom, then shook her head and said, “I’ve got to kill that dratted chicken.”

  Her mouth drew down in a look of disgust. Usually one of her parents killed the chickens, but this time it was up to her. Reluctantly, she went to the front door, stepped outside, then descended the steps. For a moment she looked around, taking in the backyard and the fields beyond. Knowing that her family had their own place always gave Lanie a good feeling.

  Their property consisted of five acres, which had once been the hub of a large plantation belonging to Jesse and Elma Freeman, her father’s great-grandparents. It was parceled off during Reconstruction, and now all that remained were these five acres perched just outside of Fairhope. The front of the two-story house, which was built before the Civil War, faced Jefferson Davis Avenue, the eastern city limit. In the opposite direction, low foothills began to rise a mile away, then the Buffalo Mountains shouldered their way to the sky like dark humpbacked elephants.