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  ADVANCE PRAISE FOR PERENNIALS

  “From the lush Mississippi setting and lyrical writing, to the flawed yet engaging characters, Julie Cantrell’s Perennials is an engrossing reading pleasure. I loved this story of a fractured family and a prodigal daughter, and the healing power and connections that tending gardens brings to their lives. Like an artist, the author uses a delicate brush to carefully illustrate the joys and pains of life’s growing seasons, and of learning how to surrender old hurts to find forgiveness. This is a book to read more than once.”

  —KAREN WHITE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT

  “Family drama, small-town pressures, and life’s unexpected turns are all set within the charming parameters of a Southern perennial garden. Add the literary links to Faulkner and Welty, a soul-stirring romance, and Cantrell’s lyrical story- telling skills, and you’ve got a heartwarming tale that is sure to outlast the seasons. You’ll love Perennials!”

  —MARY ALICE MONROE, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BEACH HOUSE FOR RENT

  “Like the perennial plants that give the story its namesake, Julie Cantrell’s characters survive drought and flood, sunshine and storm. Readers will see reflections of their own lives as they travel along with Lovey when she returns to the rich Mississippi soil to bloom again. If Julie Cantrell isn’t on your reading list, she should be.”

  —LISA WINGATE, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BEFORE WE WERE YOURS

  “With languid prose and vivid description, Julie Cantrell’s novel unfolds as beautifully as one of her protagonist’s favorite flowers. Cantrell weaves moving and inspirational stories that make her one of today’s most beloved storytellers. Perennials may be her most breathtaking yet.”

  —KRISTY WOODSON HARVEY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF SLIGHTLY SOUTH OF SIMPLE

  “You can leave home—but does home ever leave you? That’s the question at the heart of Julie Cantrell’s stunning new novel. With a story that’s at once classic and unlike anything you’ve read before, Perennials is as lush and entrancing as the gardens described within its pages.”

  —CAMILLE PAGÁN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF LIFE AND OTHER NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES

  “In Perennials, Julie Cantrell has written a love letter to her home state of Mississippi, Deep South summers, and flower blooms that can heal the soul. Through main character Lovey’s return trip home, we see what it means to keep ‘Family First’ no matter what. And her journey home is much more than just miles traveled—it’s a glimpse into a life full of heartache and longing, the illuminating light of truth, and the redemptive power of love.”

  —LAUREN K. DENTON, AUTHOR OF THE HIDEAWAY

  “I don’t think there is anything prettier than the words written by Julie Cantrell. Perennials is a beautiful story of redemption, full of rich and colorful characters. Five stars.”

  —CELESTE FLETCHER MCHALE, AUTHOR OF THE SECRET TO HUMMINGBIRD CAKE

  “Full of southern charm, this evocative family saga delves into the weight of our relationships and the roles played by fate, redemption, and love. Beautifully written, Julie Cantrell’s Perennials is a must read, especially for those who believe in the power of second chances.”

  —KARMA BROWN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF IN THIS MOMENT

  “In Perennials, Julie Cantrell offers a modern Southern family saga brimming with traditional family values and contemporary problems. Cantrell’s well-paced story, beautiful prose, and lush descriptions effortlessly carry you through the estranged, yet enmeshed, lives of sisters Lovey and Bitsy. The novel is deftly woven with bits of Mississippi history, literature, and landscape, adding to this immersive read that goes right to your heart, and makes you remember what’s truly important.”

  —AMY SUE NATHAN, AUTHOR OF LEFT TO CHANCE

  “Perennials is much more than a testament to the South and the healing power of family; it is a love letter that speaks to the deepest longings within us all. Julie Cantrell is a master.”

  —BILLY COFFEY, AUTHOR OF STEAL AWAY HOME

  “Oxford, Mississippi—In the span of only a few pages, author Julie Cantrell, in her new novel of the South, took me from a place I’d never been to a place I now feel I need to go. With tenderhearted prose and characters full-to-blooming, Perennials is a poignant family drama that reminds us all what it means to return to our roots and come back home.”

  —JAMES MARKERT, AUTHOR OF THE ANGELS’ SHARE

  “With her proven ability to peel back the layers that expose the frailty of the soul, Julie Cantrell has created another evocative tale that tackles tough themes like trust, loyalty, truth, and the familial ties that bind us, whether we want them to or not. A story that will settle in and stay with you, Perennials is a masterpiece not to be missed.”

  —CATHERINE WEST, AUTHOR OF THE THINGS WE KNEW AND THE MEMORY OF YOU

  PRAISE FOR THE FEATHERED BONE

  “Deeply emotional, moving, and full of amazing imagery, Cantrell’s latest is a triumph. Although some of the pain on the pages is incredibly difficult to read, this novel is stunning in its ability to convey the different meanings of slavery and being trapped in untenable circumstances. The ending is healing; this is a book to be savored and pondered.”

  —RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4½ STARS, TOP PICK!

  “The author of the Christy Award– winning Into the Free and Carol Award winner When Mountains Move has written an excruciatingly dark and disturbing novel about the devastating impact of sex trafficking on two families . . . Her portrait of loss and heartbreak will leave readers reeling.”

  —LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW

  “Julie is a master storyteller who weaves a compelling story around the issue of human trafficking and the fall-out in the lives of friends and family whose very existence became a daily struggle to hold on and to put one foot in front of the other.”

  —MISSISSIPPI CHRISTIAN LIVING

  “From the beginning, this story gripped me. Julie Cantrell is a wonderful wordsmith, and The Feathered Bone offers deep insight.”

  —FRANCINE RIVERS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “A stunning story that takes us through tragedy, heartbreak, and ultimately to both courage and redemption.”

  —PATTI CALLAHAN HENRY, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE IDEA OF LOVE AND THE STORIES WE TELL

  “The Feathered Bone is not to be missed.”

  —MICHAEL MORRIS, AUTHOR OF A PLACE CALLED WIREGRASS AND MAN IN THE BLUE MOON

  “The Feathered Bone is haunting and hauntingly beautiful, a heart-wrenching story about how one woman, Amanda Salassi, rises from the depths of despair to discover that freedom and miracles do exist. Seeing pure darkness enables her to appreciate the light of love and hope.”

  —ALLEN MENDENHALL, SOUTHERN LITERARY REVIEW

  “The Feathered Bone is at once heartbreaking and uplifting, tragic and beautiful. And it is also a book that reminds us that even in our darkest hour, there is still hope, still reason to go on, still reason to forgive, to be alive, and to love.”

  —DAVID ARMAND, AUTHOR OF HARLOW AND THE GORGE

  “Emotionally gripping, The Feathered Bone will break your heart, but Julie Cantrell’s masterful skill as a wordsmith will not leave you broken. If you believe beauty can emerge from devastation, this story is for you. If you don’t, this story is for you.”

  —SUSAN MEISSNER, AUTHOR OF SECRETS OF A CHARMED LIFE

  OTHER BOOKS BY JULIE CANTRELL

  Into the Free

  When Mountains Move

  The Feathered Bone

  Perennials

  © 2017 by Julie Cantrell

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photoco
py, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., www.wordserveliterary.com.

  Interior design by Mallory Collins

  Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotation taken from NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org)

  Quote in chapter 5 from TV show Lost in Space occurred during episode 11 of season 3 (“The Deadliest of the Species”).

  Lyrics in chapter 9 are from “Time” by Pink Floyd; written by David Jon Gilmour, Nicholas Berkeley Mason, George Roger Waters, and Richard William Wright; on the album The Dark Side of the Moon, originally released in 1973.

  William Faulkner quote in chapter 23 is from The Sound and the Fury © 1928, published by McGraw Hill Text in 1946.

  William Faulkner quote in chapter 23 is from the short story “Golden Land,” published in Collected Stories of William Faulkner in 1948.

  Quotations from Lovey’s favorite poem in chapter 25 are from The Golden Treasury by Francis T. Palgrave, published by Macmillan in 1875; Bartleby.com in 1999.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Cantrell, Julie, 1973- author.

  Title: Perennials / Julie Cantrell.

  Description: Nashville, Tennessee : Thomas Nelson, [2017]

  Epub Edition September 2017 ISBN 9780718037659

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017023285 | ISBN 9780718037642 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3603.A597 P47 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017023285

  Printed in the United States of America

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  For my children,

  and for all children,

  and for the child in all of us—

  May you always know the truth: you are loved.

  The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.

  —STEPHEN KING

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  “Falsehood flies, and the Truth comes limping after it.”

  —JOHNATHAN SWIFT, THE EXAMINER, 1710

  Summer 1979

  Oxford, Mississippi

  “Four!” Bitsy cheers, twisting the lid to her firefly jar. I race behind my only sister. She’s eleven, which means she’s three years bigger than me, and that’s enough to make her boss. Fisher says she’s not the boss of me, but Bitsy says she is and that’s that.

  A summer day in Mississippi can last a whole year long, and today is one of those whole-year-long kind of days. Even the leaves are lazy, leaning big as hands from the sweet gum tree with not so much as a breeze to keep ’em company. If it weren’t for the trees, we’d have already melted. But they stand heavy and green and full of shade, so I don’t mind the heat much, especially now that evening is settling over us.

  “I got four too.” I hold my Mason jar up high to Bitsy’s eyes.

  The lightning bugs flash against the glass and Bitsy says, “Good job, Lovey,” so I give her my best smile, the kind I wear on Christmas mornings.

  “Six.” Fisher snaps his lid against the rim. “We win!”

  His little brother, Finn, reaches for the jar with a pair of five-year-old hands that look like Fisher’s, only smaller. Both boys are covered in bug bites and dirt and everything Mississippi, same as us.

  “Lovey? Bitsy?” Mother calls from the porch using our nicknames because no one ever calls us any other way. When I was little, I couldn’t say the name Elizabeth. Bitsy was the best I could do. Eva was easy to say, but my folks noticed my “lovable nature” and took to calling me Lovey. At least that’s the way Mother tells it. We can’t see her from way out here in the pasture, but we can hear when she yells, “Supper!”

  The sun is on top of the redbud tree looking like a lollipop by the time our father, Chief, waves from his truck. “Wanna ride?”

  Bitsy shakes her head no, so I do the same. Chief drives on up the gravel lane, smiling ’cause he’s happy to be home. At least that’s what he tells us every night at supper.

  “Y’all hungry?” I ask the boys.

  Fisher shrugs. “I dunno.” He says this like his lips are stitched together, so I take that to mean yes.

  “Well, come on then.” I wave my arm, which is the same as saying, “Follow me if y’all wanna eat with us,” and they do. But first we all stand barefoot, letting the shade-cool grass tickle our toes as we uncap our jars. Even without lids, the fireflies don’t leave the glass, so we tap the bottom and cheer, “Fly, fireflies. Fly!” We say it faster and faster until we fall to the grass laughing because our tongues won’t roll the words.

  When all fourteen fireflies finally fly away, we race each other home for supper. Fisher wins, as always, and I come in second for the first time ever.

  “Only ’cause I let you pass me,” Bitsy says.

  Fisher shakes his head and says Bitsy is a liar.

  When we reach the porch, Chief is standing in the driveway talking to some man I don’t know. Mother comes outside, says, “Go get washed up.”

  “Who’s that?” Bitsy looks at the man in the big-striped tie. Mother wrings her hands in her apron and doesn’t answer, so we all figure it’s one of Chief’s clients.

  Everybody calls our father Chief, even Bitsy and me. Mother says the name stuck from back when he played football at Ole Miss. Now he’s a lawyer, which means he helps people obey the law. But sometimes they don’t obey the law, and then he helps them do better next time.

  This client is probably somebody who didn’t obey the law, because he has a mean-man look on his face. He must not know Chief either, because he calls my father Mr. Sutherland. But neither of those things bothers me half as much as his daughter. She’s marching over to the porch like she’s one of those broody mama chickens who doesn’t like us to take her eggs. I don’t know her name, so I’m gonna call her Moody Broody because I sometimes like things to rhyme. “Why are y’all so d
irty?”

  Fisher laughs. Finn laughs. I give her the stink eye. And Bitsy, well, Bitsy looks like somebody just stepped on her toes. Hard. Only her toes are just fine ’cause I can see ’em, and maybe they are a little muddy on account of us playing barefoot all day, but who cares?

  “We aren’t dirty.” Bitsy holds her fists on her hips like she’s punching herself into a pinch. If she were a flavor, it would be sour.

  “Look at your feet.” Moody Broody’s got a voice like a chicken too. Loud and squawky-talky. “And your hands. Your clothes. You sure seem dirty to me.”

  Bitsy’s eyes start to look like glass, which usually means she’s gonna cry, only this time she bites her lip until her eyes go back to normal again. Then she turns to Fisher, Finn, and me. “Let’s go.”

  But I’m not done yet. If Moody Broody wants to tell us we’re dirty, then I want to know why she’s dressed like a church lady. “Why are you wearing Sunday clothes? You going to trial for something?”

  She huffs, and I almost ask her if she is laying an egg, but I don’t because, one, it would be rude, and two, she’s already strutted back over to Mr. Mean-Man Face. Besides, Bitsy repeats, “Let’s go.” So we go.

  “Got ourselves two extra boys tonight?” Chief leaves his hat at the door.

  Mother smiles. “Found these two in the backwoods. Haven’t a clue where they came from, but they say their names are . . . What’d you say again, boys? Was it Fisher and Finn?”

  Finn’s the baby, but even he knows Mother’s joking. Their family farm is right across the street, but they eat supper with us most every night, and we all like it that way.

  Mother places the hot butter-bread in the middle of the table, and we know what to do from here. We bow our heads, close our eyes, and wait until it’s time to say “Amen.” Then we pass the potato salad, chicken, and baked beans until everybody fills a plate. Finally, we eat.

  “I see y’all met Blaire Dayton,” Chief says. “Her family’s new to town.”

  “Always nice to make another friend,” Mother adds.

  My sister takes a bite of beans so she doesn’t have to talk about it.