Summer's Song Read online

  Table of Contents

  All she has to do is prove that she’s changed… completely.

  The Novels of Lindi Peterson

  Summer’s Song

  Dedication

  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

  Summer’s Song Discussion Questions

  Also by Lindi Peterson

  About The Author

  All she has to do is prove that she’s changed… completely.

  Pop-star princess Summer Sinclair doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she’s cleaned-up and sober. She knows God’s been nudging her, but since God is unfamiliar territory, she feels scared and alone. Everything changes when she meets Levi Preston, a Christian musician who’s falling for Summer and wants her to be who God created her to be. But when the reality of her life takes Levi to places he’s vowed to stay clear of, will Summer’s newfound freedom be what breaks her heart as she does what is best for Levi?

  “Summer’s Song, Lindi Peterson’s tale of love and redemption, beckons like a finely wrapped gift that, once opened, reveals priceless treasures within. This second novel firmly establishes Peterson as a master storyteller and an inspired voice in Southern fiction.”

  —Debby Giusti, author of The Officer’s Secret, The Captain’s Mission and The Colonel’s Daughter

  “Compelling … realistic … a winner! Tugs at your heart and won’t let go … Flawless writing with heartfelt emotion … This book has it all; faith, courage and love. You won’t want to put it down.”

  —Cindy Kirk, author of Love Enough For Two

  “Lindi Peterson has done it again with Summer’s Song: A fun voice, characters who make you care and at moments make you laugh out loud, and a touching story that draws you in and holds you spellbound until the sigh-worthy ending. Fans of Peterson’s first novel, Her Best Catch, will be pleased! She’s penned another you don’t want to miss.”

  —Missy Tippens, author of A House Full of Hope from Harlequin Love Inspired

  “With just the right blend of humor, angst and romance, Summer’s Song pulls you into the world of Summer Sinclair, a captivating character you won’t soon forget. As Summer tries to get her life back on track, she encounters many trials along the way, including one in the form of handsome musician, Levi Preston. But, as Summer begins her journey of dealing with and healing from the mistakes of her past, she realizes it just might be possible to find love again. God’s and Levi’s. Lindi Peterson presents a powerful story of second chances, forgiveness and redemption - one to savor and enjoy!”

  —Catherine West, award-winning author of Yesterday’s Tomorrow

  “In Summer’s Song, Lindi Peterson has penned a winsome tale of second chances amid the clash of two very different cultures. This novel is a lovely read, infused with gentle humor and refreshing honesty.”

  —Meg Moseley, author of When Sparrows Fall

  The Novels of Lindi Peterson

  HER BEST CATCH (Winner of a Holt Merit Award)

  SUMMER’S SONG

  And coming soon …

  The RICHNESS IN FAITH Series

  Summer’s Song

  by

  Lindi Peterson

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-152-4

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-137-1

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2012 by Lindi Peterson

  Her Best Catch (excerpt) copyright © 2011 by Lindi Peterson

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Couple (manipulated) © Bonita Cheshier|Dreamstime.com

  Landscape (manipulated) © Daveallenphoto|Dreamstime.com

  :Mss:01:

  Dedication

  To Lenny, I love you more and more each day. Thank you for loving me.

  Brenna, Alex, Sarah, Melanie, Jason, Ally B., Tyler, Lisa and Brian-thank you for giving me reasons to smile and love life.

  To Cuz Wendy, I miss you much. Thanks for loving it all. RIP

  Now I see that I can live for You

  See that I can love for You

  See that I can sing for You

  Now I’m free

  Now I see

  Chapter One

  How can a simple knock at the door undo nine months of therapy? I immediately recognize the annoying tap, pause, tap, tap, tap pattern my manager, Coleman, uses. Of course his knock didn’t become annoying until I became sober. But I guess noticing is part of recovery.

  Abandoning my green beans and chicken, I make my way to the door wondering why Coleman is three days early. It’s Friday, he isn’t due to arrive until Monday, and I’m so not mentally prepared for him.

  While I, Summer Sinclair, have been in seclusion, as Coleman puts it, we have communicated mostly by phone. I’m not sure for whose benefit. He claims he doesn’t want the media disturbing Lawson’s Ledge, a small Georgia town nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, but Coleman rarely thinks of anyone but himself, let alone a whole town. I personally think he doesn’t want the media to figure out I’m in therapy.

  I open the door, hoping to remember some of what my therapist said about standing on my own two feet. “You’re three days early. What gives?” I attempt to take control of the conversation. After all, this is my life.

  “Hello to you, too, Princess,” Coleman says. His nickname for me grates on my nerves as he pushes his way past me.

  I stare after him as I shut the door. Still slick, savvy and succinct. He’s been managing my career since day one. Even though I don’t really want him around, I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  But I’m learning.

  “Would you like some dinner?” I ask as I watch him dig through the refrigerator, jars clanking as he moves the few things that are in there around.

  “No, thanks. I grabbed a burger on my extremely long drive from the airport. Being in this remote location isn’t very convenient.”

  “Sorry,” I reply.

  “Why is your hair brown?” He pulls out a soda before shutting the refrigerator door.

  Coleman has always been one to get right to the point. “My hair is its natural color. And it’s a not brown. It’s strawberry blonde.”

 
; I run my hand through my hair, the softness of it a foreign feeling I’m still not used to. But I like it. It reminds me I’m real. That I can feel.

  “It’s a turn-off. Your fans like that white-blonde color.”

  “My fans also like me stoned. Besides, I like it this way.” I sound more timid than I want to. If you sound like you mean it, people will react like you mean it. My therapist’s words ring in my head seconds too late.

  Popping the top on the soda can, Coleman cops this really serious look. “I guess there’s time to fix it when you get back. It’s almost time, you know.”

  “Time for what?” A sinking feeling seeps into my stomach. Do my three small words now mean he has control of the conversation? I sit down in front of my plate wishing he would disappear and hoping it doesn’t show.

  “Time to get back to it. After the custody hearing next month you’ll be in California, settled down with Sam. Have you written any material like we talked about?”

  He talked about it. I didn’t want to even think about it. All I want to think about is my son, Sam. I stab a green bean and shove it in my mouth. Chewing slowly, savoring the delicious seasonings, I deliberately choose my words.

  “Coleman. I’ve said this before. When I’m back in California, things aren’t going to be like they used to be. Sam and I are a family. I plan on spending my time with him. He’s starting school in a year. I need to be with him now as much as I can.”

  Coleman pulls a chair out and sits across from me. Why is it that his blond hair, tanned skin and expensive suit intimidate me? I probably paid for it all.

  “You can be a family with your son and still have a singing career.”

  I close my eyes, trying to pull from strength my therapist swears I have. “That’s not the point. I can’t get back into those circles. Those long hours, weeks away from home. It’s not going to happen again.”

  I have no plans to return to the crazy business I’d spent the last year recovering from. It has already cost me more than I’ll ever be able to regain. There’s a relationship with my mother I need to repair. Never mind my sister. And the most important one of all. With my four-year-old son.

  “Meghan Cascade called. She wants an interview.”

  His statement is so matter of fact, I almost miss it.

  “Meghan Cascade?”

  “Yes. A chance to tell your side of the story. With someone the media respects. Her talk show is number one right now. This would be a great opportunity for you.”

  I push my food around on my plate. What he means is it would be a great opportunity for him. “The media has forgotten me. I like it that way.”

  I stand, taking my plate with me. I scrape my food into the sink. When Coleman starts to speak, I drown him out by turning the disposal on. Too bad my therapy sessions have ended. Otherwise I would tell my therapist the strength to tune people out can come from a garbage disposal.

  When the whirring stops he says, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Summer. This is serious business. You can’t walk away.”

  “Watch me.” I head out of the kitchen onto the back patio. The early September evening is still warm. The green leaves on the trees hang in the stillness of the air. Tall pines shoot up toward the sky, their skinny trunks, straight as rulers, hiding their strength. I cross my arms, fully aware of the body language I’m exhibiting. My chin points slightly upward.

  He comes and stands half-in, half-out of the doorway. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be back tomorrow after you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Take something if you need to. I’ll see you around ten tomorrow morning.”

  “Since when did you start working on Saturdays?” I ask, totally ignoring his comment about taking something. That’s what the old Summer would’ve done, not the new Summer, whom Coleman refuses to acknowledge.

  “Since you owe Feline Records another CD. They’ve waited patiently while you partied, then had your so-called breakdown. But now they want their album.”

  My heart steels. “You said you would get me out of that contract. You promised.”

  “I tried. Can’t be done.”

  Disbelief threatens to overwhelm me. I’m speechless, but my chin lifts a little higher despite the inward drop of hope.

  “See you tomorrow, Princess.”

  As soon as Coleman is out of sight I slump into the glider, the colorfully patterned cushions doing nothing to brighten my mood. Only the sound of Coleman’s car barreling down the driveway relieves some of my tension.

  I grab my legal pad and pen that I have hidden under the other cushion of the glider. Page after page are flipped up and over the top.

  Songs.

  My songs. Plenty of songs for a CD. Not a CD Feline Records would produce, though. Coleman would faint if he saw them. He would wonder what sort of an imposter has taken over my soul.

  Truth is, I feel like an imposter. These feelings, these thoughts, these words aren’t mine. They’re from God. I shiver at the thought.

  Me and God.

  Oil and water.

  A guitar with a broken string.

  Some combinations just don’t combine.

  But there is no other way to explain how I’ve written these songs. They’ve come from a place in my heart I never knew existed. My soul. My innermost being. Everything about me lies bare and bold in these words. When I reread them, I cry. I’ve cried before, but not like this. This cry comes from an ache I long to fill. A depravity of sorts from years of emptiness.

  Like the guitar lessons I’ve been taking, writing songs began as therapy. But now I’ve found I can’t quit.

  I clutch the legal pad close to my chest like I’m afraid the pines have eyes. The only person who has even seen this pad is country music legend Skeet Lawson. He’s eighty if he’s a day, and this town is named after his family. He lives across the lake and has been my mentor for the last six months. My therapist recommended that I ask him to give me guitar lessons as additional therapy. She insisted it would help me focus on something I like and learn something new. As much as I have been on stage, I have never played an instrument.

  I glance down at the words on the page. Words about love. A different love than I used to sing about. A love I can’t really understand. But a love Skeet says is real.

  Skeet has told me it’s also unconditional, which I’m having a really hard time understanding. In my line of work everybody wants something.

  Coleman wants his share of my fortune. My fans want the seductive lyrics and sexy beats. My songs blare from all the dance clubs in the world. Girls and guys move in very private ways in very public places to my music. They are not going to accept these new songs.

  “Hello, Summer.”

  My heart warms at the sound of the voice. Skeet. I turn my body slightly to see him walking onto the patio. There is a path through the woods from this cabin to his house. I’m used to him just showing up. I think I rather like it. I stand to greet my mentor and friend. “Hi there. Needed a walk?”

  “Gotta keep this old body mobile.” He eyes me, a serious look crossing his features. “What’s wrong? You’re too pretty to be lookin’ so sad.”

  There’s no hiding anything from Skeet. I motion for him to sit down.

  He sits in the same chair every time he visits. His attire rarely changes. Jeans and some sort of denim shirt, scuffed boots, all which make me comfortable knowing he hasn’t changed. He also rarely settles in here. Today is no exception. He’s perched on the edge of the chair, just enough to take the load off, yet not enough to think he’s going to stay awhile.

  “Coleman showed up early. He left not too long ago. He couldn’t get me out of that contract with Feline. Now I have to make another CD for them.”

  He chuckles. “You know how many people would give their left leg to have your problem?”

  I smile. “Yes. But it’s different for me. You know that. You know what they expect. And you’ve told me I’m better than those records I’ve been making.”

  “So mak
e a better record.”

  “I don’t know how. I only know one thing. Sex sells.”

  He doesn’t flinch at my honesty. He knows where I’ve been. What I’ve come through.

  “You have to leave that way of thinking. I know you’ve written plenty of lyrics. Put them to use.”

  “How? With electronic pulses, techno-beats? I can’t just strum a guitar. Feline will fall out.”

  “Make an album you want to make.”

  “Right. I can’t see the Christian music world being terribly excited at being asked to spin a tune on their airwaves that I’ve written. I do have a reputation, remember?”

  “You have any big plans tonight?” he asks, his tone mocking in a friendly way. He knows very well I never have any plans. Not unless Sam is visiting. Then I’m busy being Mom.

  Or at least trying.

  “Thought I’d hop on my jet plane, scoot over to Paris for the evening, tunnel over to England, visit Big Ben.” We laugh, both of us knowing that scenario is just a phone call away. “Why, can you make me a better offer?”

  “Might can. How ’bout a bologna sandwich at my house in about an hour?”

  Thoughts of my dinner in the garbage disposal make the bologna sound tempting. Whereas Coleman could ruin any appetite, Skeet makes mud pies sound delicious. “Sounds fabulous.”

  “Good. There’s a friend of mine I want you to meet. He should be at my place any time now, so I can’t stay.” He slowly stands, his age doing things to his body that his mind hasn’t succumbed to yet.

  I think I’ve come to know Skeet over these last few months, but I still have to be very careful. He’s in the entertainment business where anything can happen. I mean anything. “Okay. But who’s the friend? And why do you want me to meet him?”

  “You trustin’ me or not?”