Synopsis
THANKS TO A TRAUMATIC childhood, Molly Burton has been adopted into the home of her aunt and uncle, as sister to their own three daughters.
As the youngest of the four, a black-haired azure-eyed beauty, she has also been tremendously spoiled.
She is not happy with the girls’ necessary move from St. Louis to a small town in East Texas. She feels left out when her sisters seem to be making adjustments, settling in, and finding their way to contentment. She loses patience with the slow and boring pace of her life.
On her own, ignoring experience or advice from those most able to give it had they been consulted, she engages in a correspondence with Quinn Hennessey, currently living in Kansas. Molly consents to marry him if he will move to Turnabout.
Molly enjoys a full week of exciting, romantic courtship. Then, without a second thought, she pledges her vows to Quinn in a small intimate ceremony.
Trouble is, every man is not what he seems. And every mail order bride does not end up with a happy marriage.
Journey to Turnabout
Book Two: Molly Burton / Summer
Chapter One
“BUT, MOLLY, WHY WOULD you—”
“That makes no sense, Mol, it seems—”
“I don’t understand your rationale in even considering such—”
“Exactly my reason for not telling any of you until now.” Molly, serene against the buffeting wave of her sisters’ incredulous objections, continued sipping from the glass of lemonade as if nothing untoward had taken place.
“But, dear,” said Camellia, the only one with any experience in the matter, and thus the one to whom the younger girls turned for advice, “being married—especially as a mail order bride—can be quite—difficult.”
The three single Burtons had joined Camellia around her kitchen table for a lunch proudly cooked and presented by Camellia herself, on this hot and steamy mid-day in late June. While most of Turnabout’s main street, and, indeed, the Forrester home, as well, stood shaded by a multitude of gracious sycamores and oaks, the blazing rays of the sun cut straight through every separation of every healthy leaf to sear its heat into any available window. In between courses, guests and hostess alike had been wielding a painted fan with enthusiasm, to stir the air into some semblance of coolness.
Camellia had been practicing her culinary skills on long-suffering husband, Ben, for just this moment. Menu ideas, unusual dishes, seasonings and flavorings not often tried: he served as willing volunteer for whatever she placed before him. Some of her specialties he defined as successful; others were not so much (although, with a weather eye to the future, he chowed down, regardless, and provided a very minor criticism only because she demanded it).
Once she felt ready for the challenge, she had invited her sisters to noontime dinner.
Creamed chicken, with mushrooms and parsley; a tart and cool beetroot salad; and Charlotte Russe, the dessert over which she had fussed and agonized all morning. Hannah’s brows had raised in surprise when they were ushered to the table, set with a lovely lace tablecloth, a cut-glass vase of fresh flowers from the back yard, and bone china dressed out in delicate blue and white.
“Ah, I see you’ve unearthed some of the St. Louis things you packed away,” she observed.
“Only for the moment. Once you girls are settled in somewhere more permanent, I’ve every intention of sharing. Sit down, and let’s catch up.”
“This is how you’re spending your time, then—cooking and cleaning for a man?” Hannah’s voice had not lost its waspish tone.
“When I’m not doing other things. Here, Hen, have more creamed chicken. Actually, I’m working.” Camellia was neither too mature nor too long married to prevent giving an excited little bounce on her chair.
“Working, how? You mean managing a household isn’t work?”
“Ben has realized how much it means to me, so I’m spending several afternoons a week at the store.”
Several comments burst forth at once: “He’s allowing you to be there?” “Don’t you find it boring?” “You mean you’re a—a shop clerk?”