As promised, I’m posting an excerpt from my upcoming book, White Castle.

First, is a synopsis.

SYNOPSIS

Along Highway 1, between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, sprawled upon three hundred and fifty acres is The Hammond Plantation. A dilapidated and patinated wrought-iron gate surrounding the mansion separates the future from the past. Tangled between thick cobwebs is a subtle but mysterious power which prevents the structure from crumbling to the ground. The decrepit forty-eight-room house is desperate for love and won’t fully flourish until its family returns home.

Love is not something Melba Chaveaux has encountered lately, and the sudden death of her husband heightens her yearning. She covets a distraction from her loss and gives in to her best friend’s advice to return to a place which has been a source of contention since childhood. As a child, Melba never gave credence to her mother’s implausible assertions: that the white owner of The Hammond Plantation was her father, who, given the era in which he lived, uncharacteristically bequeathed all that he owned to Melba.

Although it’s safe to remain within her cenobitic existence in New Hope, Pennsylvania, White Castle’s secrets prompt questions everyone is reluctant to answer, and the deeper Melba digs the more acutely personal they become. Fueled by a lifelong hatred for Louisiana, she fully intends to retaliate against those who’ve wronged her family with the intent to leave them with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. As she works the land and makes discoveries of buried secrets, her hatred makes a pivotal transformation and forces her to address a nagging and undeniable question. Where is her real home? Is it her Pennsylvania estate where she and Daniel lived, or is it the run-down mansion in the swampy bayous of Louisiana?

White Castle begins at the close of the 20^th century and shines a light on all who are tempted to neglect what our forefathers fought so hard to preserve and pass on to us. Though White Castle is a real place in Louisiana, this is a fictitious tale of a fierce and determined woman who overcomes numerous pitfalls to redefine herself, forgive the unforgivable, and experience an immeasurable love for all that matters—family and the earth beneath her feet.

PROLOGUE

December 1999

Daniel Chaveaux woke early and stood at a wall of windows in his family room gazing at naked trees on several hills behind his home. Steam rose from his coffee cup. The black brew tasted awful, bitter, but he needed it, suffered it, until the stimulant did its job. On the couch, in the middle of his open briefcase, lay a calendar covered with sticky-notes. Next to it, four tubes filled with architectural drawings, blueprints, and floor plans. The fireplace crackled, wood shifted. The family room, warm. Tea lights bathed the room in a soft, glimmering light. The floor above him creaked. His wife, Melba, was awake. He assumed she’d soon rest in a chair to ease pain in her back. He should have changed his major, became a doctor, not an architect. She needed healing for her back, healing for the wrong he had done that medicine could not cure. His offense against her twisted his gut. A sudden sense of dread overcame him, the kind of dread experienced when someone dies, someone close, someone you can’t live without. He examined the hot brew as if to wish it was something else—a medicinal concoction, or better yet, a truth serum, and a place to hide from the horrific fallout sure to follow.

He bit the inside of his lip, aware his time had run out; aware if he continued with his need for discretion, that nightmarish dream would not let go of him. The dream began with violent winds beating against a frantic sky diver. In desperation, the sky diver’s frenetic hands scrambled for the three-ring release of a faulty parachute. Daniel screamed in silence. Clawed through his hallucinated state to save him. The man hit the ground in a loud thud. Daniel bolted upright in bed, covered in perspiration, fighting with the wretched lie that things would be fine.

He blamed the torturous nightmare on his son’s twenty-first birthday, a celebratorial occasion that ended in a dispute. On December 5^th, Daniel presented the young man with a 1962 Ford Mustang—a white, four-cylinder, open two-seater—a car his son had coveted for over seven years. Instead of gratitude, the young man spewed a torrential hailstorm and laced it with an unexpected promise: “When I turned sixteen, I realized things you told me didn’t add up. For the last five years, I’ve kept a journal. Now, I’m certain you’re an imposter and I plan to follow you every day to see for myself if you’re really as devious as you appear, father.”

Each night since, Daniel’s whole body convulsed. In daylight, he barely walked a straight line. Couldn’t hold anything steady in his hand. Looking around every street corner, peeping through curtains with heightened suspicion, flinching and staring at ringing telephones accentuated his fear that today might be the day his son made good on his promise.

If fate allowed one modicum of grace, a smidgen of extra time, he intended to explain his truth wasn’t spawned from something vile and malicious. Nor was it done in a drunken stupor. No, he went to great lengths to consider his actions. And if they—Melba, and his son—cared to hear him out, they would understand he was far less selfish than either of them ever imagined.

Melba grunted, signaling it was time to leave. She stood in the doorway, a purse strapped over her shoulder, a coat across her arm. Daniel mumbled a half-hearted “Good morning,” then placed his cup in the sink and led her to the front door. As their hired hand loaded suitcases in the trunk of their black Escalade, Daniel memorized the delicate curve of Melba’s chin, the softness of her eyes, the sweet scent of her perfume. No doubt, she sensed his uneasiness. To her credit, she said nothing. He loved that about her—how she retained her dignity, her flawless elegance, her magnificent charm. Her refrain instigated his lifelong need to grant whatever her heart desired, a desire which fomented his present dilemma.

Today, her departure for a conference in Illinois made him almost gleeful. During her absence, he planned to plot a solid course of action to explain his odd behavior and disgruntled attitude. Once he opened the car door on the driver’s side and caught his hired hand thumbing the steering wheel and staring back at him, a cold sliver of guilt pierced his soul so deep he almost cried out. Their eyes locked. Brows furrowed. Unable to thwart the numerous occasions they spoke in secret, Daniel stepped away, almost tripped over his feet. He regretted his many confessions. Yet, among all his associates, none proved more trustworthy than his hired hand.

The Escalade jerked when the driver switched gears. Daniel kissed his index and middle fingers and pressed them on the passenger window, then stepped away. Melba sat stiff and erect, staring at him, at the imprints on glass, then at him again. She lowered the window, parted her lips, but did not speak. Familiar pain and disappointment set deep in her eyes, tugged at his heart, formed lumps in his gut. During all their yesteryears, as much as he tried, he never eradicated her sorrow. That haunted him, gave him no peace … until he did the unthinkable.

He stroked her silky brown locks with his eyes, trying his best to suppress the urge to explain he never meant to deceive her. “Remember, I love you. I always will. Things will be better when you return. I promise.” Each word clung to his throat like clothes after a rinse cycle.

As the vehicle rolled away, he considered the longevity of their marriage; imagined he and his wife celebrating their forty-seventh year in rickety old rocking chairs, sipping tea, enjoying the hills beyond their thirty-two-acre estate. He huffed, rubbed his long ebony fingers across his nose. Squinted at a beam of sunlight flickering through leaves of a nearby tree. He longed for the courage to come clean and tell his side of the story, but unsure how to go about it.

Inside his office, he removed a sheet of fine linen from his desk. With unequivocal certainty, he began to do what he should have done long ago—write an apology.

Greetings, My Dearest; Baby, I need you to; and My Darling, were poor beginnings for the disturbing things he must say. No, the news isn’t all that bad. There were great benefits for what he had done. He understood the long game … understood his actions would right past wrongs. But that was familiar thinking, nothing more than a feeble substitute for his truth. No matter how sorrowful or how much he wished for a different outcome, his hope had hitched a ride on a speedboat and teetered on the edge of a dark horizon.

For the first time, he imagined Melba losing her dignity, screaming, leaving him no time to explain. He wadded up each meaningless salutation and tossed them in the trash. Another attempt to address his wife shook him so bad he lost control of the quill. Ink droplets smeared fine linen and stained his fingers. Calligraphy required a steady hand, conviction, a commitment to detail; none of which he possessed.

He pushed away from his desk and entered the bathroom to wash his hands. He recalled how Melba’s tender hands cupped his earlier that morning, doing her best to encourage him to share his pain. Harsh rejection silenced her. Caused irreparable harm. Pangs of regret growing deeper and wider than an endless sky.

He closed his eyes to calm himself, then released a prolonged and mournful groan no longer under his control. Fearful and uneasy, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs in slow, repetitive strokes. Then, at last, he whispered,

“How do I explain to the love of my life that she has a son?”

FEEL FREE to comment on what you think about the story.