The Spindle Chair Read online

  The Spindle Chair by Shellie Arnold

  Published by Firefly Southern Fiction

  an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-941103-87-6

  Copyright © 2015 by Shellie Arnold

  Cover design by Elaina Lee

  Interior design by AtriTeX Technologies P Ltd

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: www.shelliearnold.com

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words.

  When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “The Spindle Chair by Shellie Arnold published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION r. NIVr Copyright c 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas: Eva Marie Everson, Ramona Richards, and Jessica R. Everson.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Arnold, Shellie.

  The Spindle Chair / Shellie Arnold 1st ed.

  PRAISE FOR THE SPINDLE CHAIR

  In The Spindle Chair, debut author Shellie Arnold skillfully weaves together a story of longing and loss, fear and faith. At once beautiful and haunting, this is a book you won’t soon forget.

  ~Ann Tatlock

  Award-winning author of Once Beyond A Time

  Author Shellie Arnold bursts onto the scene with an emotion-packed debut novel. Beautifully written. I was hooked from page one, and the story didn’t fade away even when I’d finished it. Poignant and heart-stirring, The Spindle Chair is a must read!

  ~Ane Mulligan

  Author of Chapel Springs Revival

  I don’t think I’ve ever read a novel quite like Shellie Arnold’s The Spindle Chair. This story deals with tough issues and does so with authenticity and grace. I was touched on numerous levels, and I finished with a divinely-infused “hold tight to and fight” for lasting love. Though the particulars may change, every woman shares Laurie’s need to be held close and loved deeply. Therefore, this novel is phenomenal book club material and should be on the shelves of anyone involved in women’s ministry.

  ~Jennifer Slattery

  Author of Intertwined, New Hope Publishers, 2015

  Reviewer, Novel Reviews

  Shellie Arnold is an excellent writer who captures life events, emotions, and moves to biblical conclusions related to real life situations. I believe readers will be encouraged to know that Shellie faces life’s tough issues (loss, depression, loneliness, adjustments, communication, perception, family of origin issues, etc.) head on. I appreciate the biblical integration of The Spindle Chair, and endorse this book and wholeheartedly recommend it to couples.

  ~Donald A. Lichi, Ph.D.

  Psychologist

  Vice-President, EMERGE Counseling Services

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Until 2002, my writing goals sat squarely on the non-fiction side of the book market. Writing novels for adults was the farthest thing from my mind. I had been slowly building my platform as a speaker on marriage and family issues, and thought I knew what my next steps should be … until.

  Boy, that’s a word, isn’t it? “Until” can be a lovely word if there’s something wonderful on the other side, but it can also be quite ominous when one’s future is uncertain. At the end of 2002 and beginning of 2003 my life had a definite ominous quality—after a severe anaphylactic reaction, I experienced unexplained neurological symptoms which worsened over time. By May 2005, intermittent episodes of right side paralysis controlled my life, and had all but destroyed my dreams of writing and speaking. More often than not, I couldn’t write my own name, let alone write a book. And public speaking is out of the question when your head falls over, your mouth droops, and you can’t talk.

  On May 18, 2005, God healed my brain.

  God. Healed. My. Brain. (deep, thankful breath)

  My husband and I prayed for eleven months before I began writing again. During those eleven months, God gave me glimpses of a few scenes from The Spindle Chair. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the pictures in my head until (there’s that word again) God turned my head to fiction. That’s when my writing journey broadened to include fiction.

  So my first big thank you is to God, who not only gave me back my life and dream, but guided my steps to those listed below.

  Thank you to the LPC team. All of you. For all you do, for all the tasks I don’t even know about.

  Thank you to the many professionals who assisted me with research and answered my sometimes repetitive questions: Steven K. Abraham, Psy D.; Catherine L. Ballard, MA, LSW, PCC, CTT, TLC; John R. Ellington, Jr., MD; Mark Hancock; Patricia (Trudy) Sweat, RN; and Dr. William E. Broach III.

  Kelli Mergenthaler, thanks for being my best friend, and for openly discussing your first-hand experience with infertility.

  Eva Marie Everson, thanks again for letting me tag along to the Novel Retreat in North Carolina—a first for me—with you and Miss Betty (I miss her, too). I wouldn’t even have made it through the airports without you! Being your critique partner is an honor I cherish. Your input is invaluable, your friendship worth even more.

  To Larry Leech II and the “original” fiction group—there aren’t enough words or commas to express all my thanks for your love, support, and encouragement.

  To Deb Raney, Ann Tatlock, Ramona Richards, Cynthia Schnereger, and Steve Laube—you each encouraged me at critical junctures, and those encouragements convinced me to continue working on my craft.

  To Davis Bunn, thanks for being patient enough to explain back story, without laughing at me.

  To Mary Buckham and Dianna Love, your Break Into Fiction seminar put wind beneath my wings.

  To Lon Garber who gave me my first chance as a writer.

  To Word Weavers in Orlando, Florida, thanks for helping me start this book. And to Dory Stewart, the Medina County Writers Club, and Jessica R. Everson, thanks for helping me finish it.

  Tamela Hancock Murray, I was about to give up looking for an agent. You were and continue to be a HUGE answer to prayer. I thank God for you!

  To Susan Given, who convinced me emotional healing is within reach if I grab God’s hand and hold on.

  To my Biggest Fan (you know who you are).

  To my children, for whom I write.

  And finally to my husband. Stephen, I know we both remember you packing all my writing books into the attic at my request (constantly seeing them on my shelves hurt me so badly) when I thought my writing journey was over because of illness. Thanks for holding me and crying with me back then. Thanks for rejoicing with me now. Thanks for never letting me go.
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br />   For clarification: to my knowledge, Rowe City, Alabama, exists only in my head and heart.

  Dedicated to

  Geraldine Brady (Aunt Dean)

  who first believed in me,

  and helped me believe I could be a writer.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS FOR THE SPINDLE CHAIR

  EPILOGUE

  A Gift for You

  Thank you for investing in this book. As a thank you, LPC Books would love to offer you advance review Kindle copies of our forthcoming books. These Kindle ebooks will be delivered to your Kindle reader. We release around 40 books a year. You pick which ones you wish to receive. Visit the link below to sign up for our FREE Kindle ebook subscriber list:

  http://lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com/free-ebook/

  PROLOGUE

  “Laurie, please be all right.”

  Laurie’s mind was a black cavern. She heard Pierce’s voice, but he sounded far away.

  “Please don’t die.”

  Die? Why would he think that?

  “God, I can’t lose her, too,” he whispered.

  Lose her … what?

  The baby. They’d gone to an early dinner at Downtown Disney celebrating her new full-time position with one of Orlando’s top interior design firms. Though she wasn’t yet showing, she’d chosen to wear a maternity blouse. They’d returned home, and she’d taken a bath. She’d been thinking of little blue tubs she’d seen while shopping. How sweet it would be to swaddle a clean, wet baby. Hear him giggle and coo as she slipped his busy feet into tiny pajamas.

  As she bent to towel dry her calf, a vicious cramp stole her breath, then tightened as a vice clamping her insides. Blood gushed between her legs.

  Now, it was night. She was in the hospital. And the baby was gone.

  “I’ll be all right, Pierce.” Laurie murmured through a pasty mouth. She blinked, fighting the sedative. But was that a lie? Would she ever again be all right?

  He sat by her bed in the room’s only chair and didn’t seem to hear her.

  “Oh, God. My wife.” He rubbed his forehead against the sheet-covered mattress. “Our child.”

  The overhead light glared down on his head. She touched his hair. “Pierce?”

  He raised his damp face to look at her. “Are you hurting?”

  “Not really. Only inside.” She swallowed past the dry lump. “I can’t believe after almost six years of trying—our entire marriage—I miscarry.” The deep ache squeezed her heart. Would she never experience motherhood?

  She gulped again. “This can’t be the end for us.” How could she have miscarried when she’d felt so good, so healthy? She’d had none of the common side effects of pregnancy—no sensitivity to smell, no unusual tiredness, no morning sickness.

  “I won’t love you any less if we never have a baby.”

  She knew that. Deep inside she knew his love for her didn’t depend on her ability to have a child, but …

  Silence hung between them as she gazed into his eyes. “Thank you. I didn’t know I needed to hear that, but I guess I did.” What could a woman say when she’d failed at life’s most basic, natural skill?

  “Pastor Hammond told me to take a few days off to be with you, and Ella said to call if you need anything.”

  Pierce’s boss and his sweet wife, Ella. “That’s very kind of them.” Tears threatened and she let them fall. “Mostly I just need you.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Doesn’t look like a comfortable chair.”

  “It’ll do if it needs to.”

  She slowly lifted her head. Grief and sadness made one feel so heavy. “Will you raise the bedrail for me?”

  He sat back and did as she asked. She scooted closer to the edge, then settled on her side.

  “Want me to cover you up?”

  Fresh tears fell again. “I want you. Will you climb in behind me? Hold me?” Her breath hitched. “This hurts me so bad.”

  He took off his shoes and padded around behind her. He lifted the sheet. The mattress sagged under his weight, and his jeans rubbed against her calves. Then he snuggled against her back and wrapped his arm around her waist. She laid a hand over his and pulled him tighter around herself.

  “Pierce, I can’t go home.”

  “What?”

  “If they release me tomorrow. I can’t go back to that apartment.”

  She imagined the blood-drenched towel still lying on the bathroom floor. She’d probably left a trail all the way to their parking space in the open lot and stains in their car. Cleaning up would be awful.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  “How?” The stench of dried blood. The work it would be. “Just throw away the towels I left on the bathroom floor.” She didn’t know what to do about the car.

  “Ina Hood has always said we can have that apartment over her garage any time. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  “You mean move? How will you do it?”

  “I’ll take you to Ella’s. I’ll get church members to help me. No one should ever have to go back to any place that represents so much pain.”

  She pulled his hand to her lips, kissed it, and held it against her chest. So many men didn’t even try to understand a woman’s emotions. That Pierce understood hers, that he loved her this way, was a miracle in itself.

  Her parents—especially her mother—would have loved him.

  She touched her earlobe. “What did I do with my mom’s pearl earrings? I put them in my purse, right after we got here, didn’t I?”

  “I can look to make sure.”

  She took his hand again. “No, stay with me.”

  “Dad called while you were sleeping. There’s a board meeting at his church tomorrow, and he’s anxious for an answer, you know? But after I told him about the baby, he said we should take more time to think about it.”

  She’d known her father-in-law would one day retire—though she couldn’t picture Daniel Crane breathing, let alone talking, without preaching. She and Pierce had dreamed together of one day moving back to their home state of Alabama, so he could take over the church his parents had started so many years ago before adopting him.

  But she’d always envisioned their children as part of that process.

  She turned toward him, pressed her forehead to his. “I already loved our baby.”

  “Shh. I did, too. It’ll happen one day.”

  Laurie closed her eyes. Dear God, please, someday let me have this man’s child.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In his new home, in his new bed, he turned away from the moonlight spearing through the tall window. He could get up. Go use the nice, inside bathroom, and then return to his new bed. His new mom and dad didn’t mind him using the bathroom during the night. They had told him the one in the hall was his to use. He pulled up his knees, trying to hold it. No, he’d never get back to sleep needing to go this bad.

  He slid back the covers. On bare feet he crept across the wood floor to the
bathroom, clicked on the light, and squinted while closing the door. He barely reached the commode in time. The quiet flush reassured him he was indeed in a new home.

  A fat, orange bar of soap rested on the sink’s ledge. He lathered and washed as he knew he should, then opened the door.

  The light cast a beam to his new parents’ room. He gauged the distance, turned out the light, and tiptoed to the rug by their bed. He lowered to the floor and rested his head on his hands facing his new mom.

  “Pierce?” Her kind voice soothed him. She turned on the lamp and knelt beside him. With gentle fingers she touched his cheek. “It’s okay if you had to go to the bathroom.”

  He nodded and went into her open arms, snuggled in close as she rocked him and kissed his head. “My daddy didn’t want me no more.”

  “Oh, honey, no. He just couldn’t take care of you by himself.” She continued rocking him. “Daniel. Daniel, wake up. Come help me hold our son.”

  Pierce opened his eyes to a serene Alabama sky peeking through the mini-blinds. He blinked once, twice against the dream.

  The scent of coffee and fried eggs mingled with stiffness and cramped muscles. Pierce rolled his neck and shoulders, banged his elbow on the side of his and Laurie’s bed. He sat up.

  Whoa. Why had he been lying on the floor?

  Foggy eyes scanned the bedroom and focused. Small mountains of boxes surrounded their bed and pressed against the walls. Outside the paned windows, daylight draped around the old oak tree and soared to heaven. A large moving van filled with Laurie’s and his belongings still sat at the street’s edge, waiting to be unloaded.

  “Laurie?”

  “Be right there!” she called. “I’m making coffee. We should hang a big swing from a limb of that tree you and Gilbert played around when you were kids.”

  “That’s an idea.” He and his best friend Gilbert had played all over the narrow ten acres that held The Barn Church, the parsonage on the street corner, and the thick stand of trees between the two. Now, after all this time, he would be Gilbert’s boss.