The Good Girl
by Christy Barritt
WhiteFire Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
Copyright 2013 Christy Barritt,
All rights reserved.
Published in eBook format by WhiteFire Publishing
Converted by http://www.eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-9390-2303-2
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 author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
WhiteFire Publishing
13607 Bedford Rd NE
Cumberland, MD 21502
The book is dedicated to all of the good girls out there.
May God’s grace and favor rest upon you,
and may the hard times only serve to make you stronger.
“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—
and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—
not by works, so that no one can boast.”
~ Ephesians 2: 8-9
Chapter 1
Forrest Gump was known for saying that life was like a box of chocolates. You never knew what you were going to get.
Grandmother Griffin had a different saying. She said that life was like a Bible story. You didn’t always get a happy ending—at least not here on this earth.
For years, I didn’t believe Grandma Griffin. After all, she honestly thought that “cleanliness is next to godliness” was in the Bible. I mean, I was a Christian, so life was supposed to be blessed. And blessed meant that life was full of unconditional love and feel-good moments and abundance. Right?
Wrong.
Now, I have my own sayings. One is that life is like a beautiful apple. Sometimes you don’t know it’s rotten until you bite into it. Other days, I thought life was like the solid wood coffee table that my uncle fell on—revealing it was actually made of particleboard, thus my saying, “You never know what you’re made of until you’re broken.”
I’m Tara Lancaster, and I come from a family of missionaries, preachers, and Bible college professors. One could never be too righteous in this clan. I was right on track in my family tree, following a path that would have made Mother Teresa and Billy Graham proud.
That was, until two years ago.
It’s taken me a long time to figure things out. First, I had to battle a ghost, question my faith, consult a psychic, and fall in love with someone who wasn’t my husband.
It’s a long story. It’s a story about a good girl gone...well, I can’t tell you. I will say this: Life is like a movie. Just when things seem perfect, the movie ends.
And that’s where my story starts.
Chapter 2
Where does a twenty-something go when she’s lost faith not only in God, but in mankind?
She goes to a middle-class neighborhood in St. Paul, Minnesota to dog sit, that’s where.
At least, that’s where I went.
I’d been here all of one hour so far—most of that spent in the airport—and already things weren’t going according to plan.
I walked from the curb toward my sister’s house, glancing back for long enough to see the yellow taxi cab turn at the corner of the picturesque neighborhood. The houses resting on the neat blocks had character with their nooks and arches and detailed trim work. Each property was dotted with looming, established trees that seemed to root the area in a “Leave It to Beaver” type of aura. My sister Lana lived on Elm Street, a street name that conjured up images of cozy cookouts and friendly neighbors...or men with razor-sharp knives attached to their fingers, depending on which picture your mind wanted to conjure up. I’d stick with the cozy one.
I squeezed my cell phone between my shoulder and ear, all while trying to drag my suitcases up the cement steps of my sister’s cozy bungalow. My mom’s voice, usually soft, sounded like a megaphone in my ear, and as much as I tried to tune her out, I couldn’t.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay there? I wish you were back here in Florida. Certainly Lana’s dog would be okay in a kennel for a few weeks.”
Little did my mom know that I saw this trip to Minnesota as an escape from the nightmare surrounding my previous life. Anywhere was better than Florida, even if it did mean I was running from my problems. I decided not to tell her that, though. She worried enough without me dropping bombshells like that. I knew my mother. She’d automatically think “depression.” I didn’t want to add anything else to her already growing list of “things to pray about for Tara Lancaster.”
I leaned my suitcase against my leg and fumbled with my keys, trying to find the one Lana had mailed me. I grabbed the shiniest one and jammed it into the lock, just as a high-pitched bark began repeating on the other side of the door. That would have to be Doggie Gaga, a Maltese/Poodle mix and the sole reason for my existence for the next four weeks. I would give the dog food, water, and walks, and in return she would listen to me babble on and on for hours about how I hated my life.
“I’m going to be just fine, Mom.” I made sure my voice was even and light.
“I love you, Tara.” My mother sounded so sweet and kind. People used to say I was just like her. It was strange how life could change in the blink of an eye. A few years ago, I’d have all kinds of platitudes to tell myself at moments like these. Not long ago, I’d written all of those clichés down and ground them up, one by one, in my paper shredder. The moment was supposed to be symbolic and healing. Instead, I’d felt a bit psychotic.
Maybe the evil, maniacal laugh I’d forced out during the entire process—a laugh meant to break an otherwise tense moment—had been a little too much.
A motorcycle roared behind me. Between my mom, the dog, and the motorcycle, a headache began pulsating at the back of my head. I glanced over my shoulder at the rider, wondering why he’d stopped in front of Lana’s house.
“I have to run, Mom. I’ll check in with you later.”
“Tara?”
“Yes?”
“Everything’s going to work out just fine. I know it’s hard to see now, but it will. Just keep trusting God.”
How many times had I heard that before from well-meaning Christians? I loved my mom, but she just didn’t understand. She’d lived a flawless life. She’d been my example, and I’d planned my life to be the same.
I’d failed.
I told her good-bye before snatching the phone from my shoulder and jamming it into my purse. No sooner had I opened the door than I heard a footfall behind me. I twirled around, having visions of the paparazzi standing there camera in hand, ruining my plans.
Instead, a woman dressed in black—all the way from her fingernails and lipstick to her clothing—stood there. The only “accessory” not black was her hair, which was toilet bowl blue. A helmet rested in the crook of her arm, and a cool, aloof expression saturated her gaze.
“You Tara?”
I paused, hand on the doorknob and muscles tensed. Could I run inside and slam the door fast enough if this conversation went downhill? It might mean