Yesterday's Stardust Read online

  © 2012 by Becky Melby

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-239-6

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-60742-870-1

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.pre) 978-1-60742-871-8

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commerical purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  For more information about Becky Melby, please access the author’s website at the following Internet address: www.beckymelby.com.

  Cover credit: Studio Gearbox, www.studiogearbox.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  DEDICATION/ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  In loving memory of my mom,

  Edith Parish Foght,

  who went home to Jesus on June 16, 2011.

  In her 93 years, she lived out the quote we found in her scrapbook:

  Only one life twill soon be past.

  Only what’s done for Christ will last.

  A special acknowledgement to the staff and kids—

  past, present, and future—

  of Common Grounds Coffee House in Burlington, Wisconsin.

  I will always be grateful God allowed me a season

  of being part of something that truly makes a difference.

  Thank you to:

  Bill, for loving me and living on hot dogs and peanut butter while I finished this.

  My kids and grandkids for the fun, messy, noisy crowd we make when we’re together.

  Cathy—Thank you for your blessing on this project. Dani and Nicky and a host of other characters would not exist without you. Thank you for your steadfast friendship.

  My father-in-law, Irvin Melby, for sharing true stories of his father’s bootlegging days.

  Cynthia, for always helping me see God’s hand and purpose in everything.

  Kathy, for on-going prayer and for weekly talks and walks.

  Jan, for printing this out in tiny print so you could carry it with you to edit.

  My Bible study sisters, for praying for this book and the people who will read it.

  Rebecca Germany and JoAnne Simmons, for opportunities and nudges.

  Jamie Chavez, for wonderful editing and being so much fun to work with.

  The neighborhood where much of Yesterday’s Stardust takes place exists

  only in my head…and now yours. The storyline is based on a problem

  common to most larger cities and is in no way intended to reflect negatively on the beautiful city of Kenosha, Wisconsin.

  PROLOGUE

  September 14, 1928

  Look for the silver lining when e’er a cloud appears…” The song and the familiar rhythm of needle tugging thread freed Francie Tillman to dwell on all that might finally be going right.

  Curled in the white-painted rocker in the corner of her shop, she sang along with the Radiola as she stitched, counted her blessings, and tried to ignore all that was unfixable in her life.

  She had her own business, the kind of friends who stuck closer than family, and maybe—she threaded the thought into a prayer— they were finally safe.

  Safe.

  Bits of plaster dust clung to the wallpaper beneath the framed print she’d just hung—black clouds threatening, trees bent with the wind, a cluster of terrified people fleeing the impending storm.

  “Somewhere the sun is shining…” Her voice echoed in the windowless room as she sang. “…and so the right thing to do is make it shine for you.”

  The picture reminded her of the day she’d discovered where to hide in the storm.

  “A heart, full of joy and gladness will always banish sadness…”

  The music didn’t mask clanking tools and sputtering motors on the other side of the wall, nor the scrape of chairs and an angry stream of Italian above her, but they were predictable sounds, the backdrop of her new world. Never again would she complain about a predictable life.

  She sewed the final stitches on the voile overlay that flowed in angled layers over snowy, calf-length satin then snipped the thread with ivory-handled scissors. Holding the wedding gown against her chest, she struck a Greta Garbo pose in front of the mirror. She tried to imagine gliding down the aisle with yards of Italian lace floating from a diamond tiara and ribbons trailing from a spray of calla lilies. The vision blurred. It wasn’t her dress. There would be no white satin in Francie Tillman’s future.

  But that was all right. She had all she needed. And some she didn’t.

  She hung the gown on the dress form and covered it with a sheet then took a second glanced in the mirror.

  The floral “One Hour Dress” she’d made in forty-eight minutes from leftover polished cotton had rumpled and would never do for meeting with her biggest client yet. She closed the door on quiet and order and took the stairs down to the shadowed passage that led to the part of her life that wasn’t going right.

  In her upstairs room, with humid, late-afternoon air ruffling the eyelet curtains, she kept the song alive as she changed into the peach-colored silk charmeuse. “So always look for the silver lining, and try to find the sunny side of li—”

  “What’re you gettin’ all dolled up for?”

  Suzette leaned on the door frame, ashes cascading from the end of her cigarette. Coffee stains streaked the housecoat she’d worn for three days.

  “I have a fitting.” Francie aimed her answer at a clear glass button on her shoe. She couldn’t bear looking up at her sister’s once-beautiful eyes, or at the way the billowing gown engulfed the figure she’d once envied.

  “Who’s the hoity-toity this time? Wait. Shh.” Suze held one finger to her lips. “I heard you talking to Renata. It’s the mayor’s wife.”

  Francie nodded and sat on her vanity stool. “Please keep it to yourself.” She pulled a book out of the narrow middle drawer.

  “Sure. I get it. None of your beeswax, Suze. Fine.” Suzette walked to the far side of the room, to the twin bed that matched Francie’s except that it hadn’t been made in weeks. “I’m tired.”

  You’re alw
ays tired. Francie jumped up, grabbed the cigarette before it hit the rug, and then took a deep, slow breath. From the front room, the radio speaker her nephew called the “giant tiger’s mouth” spilled Paul Whiteman’s voice, “…strolled the lane together, laughed at the rain…” Francie sat back down, picked up her pen, and spoke to Suzette over her shoulder. “I told Franky to come to the shop when he wakes up.”

  “Mm-hm.” The slurred syllables dissolved into a raspy snore.

  “…we cried together, cast love aside together—”

  A distant noise froze her pen in midair. A gunshot. Francie jerked and turned toward the window, waiting, not breathing.

  Nothing. A car backfiring, maybe, or just memories playing havoc with her mind.

  She opened the back cover of her five-year diary. The glue had dried on the picture she’d pasted there. Hard to explain why she’d felt the urgency. Renata had told her to heed the nudge. “Listen to Jesus, mia amica.” Maybe the Lord had warned her. Or maybe she was just being paranoid. She couldn’t yet convince herself the danger had died.

  She fingered the end of the yellow satin ribbon sticking out of the book and opened to the date it marked. Her gaze traveled up the page through four Septembers to her fifteenth summer.

  September 14, 1924

  Leaving Theo will be the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I love him more than life, but Suze needs me, and besides, I was never cut out to be a missionary’s wife. I know I was created for something big, and it will begin in Chicago. I’ll get over Theo and he’ll get over me. I just hope not too soon.

  Four years had passed. She hadn’t gotten over Theo, and the one time she’d seen him, he’d said he was still in love with her. She focused on the blank slot at the bottom of the page. White, empty space, a new September 14 waiting to be filled. Setting pen to paper, she left Theo and her dreams of something big in a past she’d moved beyond.

  Life would be perfect if not for the problem sleeping in the same room with me. Today I’m doing a second fitting on Mrs. A. Tomorrow Renata and I are going to a Women’s Society Meeting at the First Congregational Church. I called Mama yesterday. She actually talked—

  A scream shattered the quiet. Francie jumped up and ran to the window. In front of the restaurant, her best friend knelt, sobbing beside her husband, who lay bleeding and motionless on the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER 1

  Last night’s applause lingered in Dani Gallagher’s mind like footprints pressed in wet sand. With the tip of a pencil, she lifted the florist’s card on the bundle of Gerbera daisies festooning the corner of her desk then tunnel-visioned back to her computer.

  The popcorn sound of keyboards capturing the pulse of Tuesday, July 10 slowed her adrenaline for several pithy sentences—until her phone binged an incoming text message.

  A parade of exclamation marks marching behind an all-caps CONGRATULATIONS triggered a maverick smile. Just as her lips widened enough to show her teeth, a flash bounced off her screen.

  Looking up through dancing spots, she met Evan Carr’s smug eyes peeking above the telephoto lens of his three-thousand-dollar obsession. Unruly brown curls and too-long-to-be-fashionable sideburns framed the elfish face of her zany sidekick. Something flat and green was wedged under his arm.

  Evan winked. “I’m calling it ‘The Face of Victory.’”

  A deep cough bounced off the oatmeal-colored walls of her cubicle. “More like ‘The Face of Gloating.’” Mitch Anderson, Kenosha Times feature editor, leaned his elbows on a fabric-covered partition. “You proved me wrong, kiddo. I didn’t think you were ready for the big leagues.”

  Dani answered with a smile tinged with just a smidge of smugness.

  Evan shoved aside papers and a microwavable container of Campbell’s Italian wedding soup and made a place for his posterior on the corner of her desk. He held out a package wrapped in green tissue. “A little something from all of us.”

  “What is it?”

  “One way to find out.” He picked at a piece of clear tape.

  Dani slid her finger under a fold. The paper tore with a satisfying rip. Matted in sage green and framed in gold, her face stared back at her from page 1, section C, of yesterday’s edition.

  Her lips parted as her reflection superimposed over her picture. “Thank you.”

  Evan leaned over the frame and cleared his throat. “‘Kenosha Times Reporter Wins National Award. Danielle Gallagher receives Chase Award for her series ‘Children of the Risk—The Age of Electronic Neglect.’” He took a sip of her hour-old coffee. “Good work, blondie.”

  “So what’s next?” Mitch shoved his glasses back to the bridge of his nose.

  “Back to the real world.” She drew out a martyr’s sigh. “Counsel meetings and school board elections. Lucky me.” Unless… She restrained the urge to spring out of her seat like Donkey in the Shrek movies. “Oh! I know! Pick me! Pick me!”

  The balding man who held her future in his pudgy hands gave a slow, torturous smile. “You’ve only been here, what? Four years? Still a rookie in my book.” He clicked his tongue. “However, the extenuating circumstances of a national contest win just might persuade me to give you a chance. Say a three-month trial period to razzle my socks off with a few more scintillating stories?”

  “Serious?” She discarded any pretense of acting mature and professional.

  “As a shark attack.” He shot a two-finger salute from the middle of his forehead. “Give me some weekly stories on kids. Good, bad, every kind of kid. But I want you working on another series like this one.” He tapped the frame. “Something big and meaty, something—” Her desk phone rang.

  Evan laughed. “More accolades?”

  One eyebrow arched at Evan, she copied Mitch’s signature salute and answered the phone. “Dani Gallagher, feature reporter, how may I help you?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  “Danielle?”

  “Yes. Can I help you?”

  “This is China.” A quiet voice edged with steel.

  Dani turned away from Mitch and Evan and covered her other ear as she matched a picture to the voice of a girl she’d interviewed in April. Sixteen, heavyset, long hair dyed black with a purplish-red cast. Dark eyes, tipped up at the corners, encased in thick strokes of liner, lashes clumped with mascara.

  “You remember me?” A shaky timbre quaked the words. Fear, anger, maybe drugs.

  “Of course. Are you all right?”

  Silence again and then a tight “No.”

  “What’s the matter, China?”

  “You were wrong.”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “You said I should leave Miguel.” Her voice shook, grew even weaker. “You said I had to stand up to him and let him know he couldn’t push me around.”

  “Did you?”

  A laugh. Low, almost vicious. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  Dani switched the phone to her other hand, wiped her damp palm against her thigh. “What happened?” Her pulse hammered against her eardrums as she waited for an answer. “China?”

  Seconds passed. “You said he was just using threats to manipulate me.”

  “What happened?”

  “He beat me—good this time. But then he said he was sorry, and he cried. I can’t stand that. I can’t ever stand that.”

  “Where are you? Are you hurt?”

  Again the laugh. “Of course I’m hurt.”

  Dear God… “How bad? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “He won’t hurt me again.”

  “Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”

  “Can’t you listen? This isn’t about me. This is about you— what you did. I was gonna give in; I was gonna stay, but then I remembered what you said. You said I was worth more than that. You said nobody has the right to beat on somebody else. You said I deserved somebody better. Well, there isn’t anybody better.” Her tone escalated. “He was the only guy that ever loved me, and you took him away.”

  T
he pulse beat intensified, pounding China’s words through her denial. “Where is he now?”

  The next sound could have been a laugh or a cry on the verge of hysteria. “In Hell, probably. Where you should be. You killed him.”

  “China, I—”

  “You ever read Romeo and Juliet? Bet you could write a nice story about that. A real, true Romeo and Juliet.”

  “China, stop it. Tell me what happened.” Romeo and Juliet. “Did he—”

  “Yeah. Right in the head. He pulled the trigger, but it was your fault.”

  Ice lodged in Dani’s veins. “I’m so, so sorry, but you have to listen to me.”

  “No. Not anymore I don’t.” Another long pause. “I called the cops.” Her voice fell flat. “They’ll be here soon. I should go. I don’t want to see them take him.”

  Dani pressed her hand against her eyes. Evan gripped her shoulder. She grabbed a pen and scribbled Check police calls. Suicide? Evan nodded and took off at a run. Mitch crouched, put his hand where Evan’s had been, leaning in toward the phone.

  “Are you alone, China?”

  Another laugh, high and eerie. “No. Miguel’s here. You believe in spirits? Maybe he’ll come back as someone else. Maybe he’ll come after you for what you did.”

  Dani dried her palm and gripped the phone to steady the shaking. The quick change in China’s voice scared her. Maybe she’d already taken something. She took a deep breath and commanded her voice to be calm. If she could just keep her talking until the police got there. “It’s not my fault, and it’s not yours either. Miguel was messed up; you told me that yourself. What I said was the truth. He didn’t have the right to hurt you. No one does. That’s not how love works.”

  Muffled sobs answered her.

  “I’m so sorry, China. I know you loved him, and I’m sorry he didn’t get the help he needed, but you have to believe you weren’t wrong to stand up to him. You’re a precious girl. Your life is valuable.” As she talked she opened a drawer. Scanning file tabs, she grabbed a yellow legal pad. Flipping through pages, she found the one from her interview with China.

  “Remember how you told me you’d like to be an occupational therapist? Why does that interest you?”