Also by Marie Bostwick
A SINGLE THREAD
ON WINGS OF THE MORNING
RIVER’S EDGE
FIELDS OF GOLD
“A High-Kicking Christmas” in COMFORT AND JOY
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Thread of Truth
MARIE BOSTWICK
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Dedicated to women of courage everywhere
who have gone from victims to victors
in the battle against domestic violence
Acknowledgments
This book could not have been written without the guidance of some very special people, including Barbara Spiegel and Nancy Rogers, who, along with the rest of the staff and volunteers at the Susan B. Anthony Project (sbaproject.org), work tirelessly to free families from the scourge of domestic violence. Thank you so much for sharing your insights and for giving me a more complete understanding of the issue of domestic abuse against women.
Also many thanks to Annie Dranginis for helping to clarify the complexities of the legal system in Connecticut.
And, as always, my thanks to “the team”—Audrey LaFehr, Jill Grosjean, Nancy Berland, and associates, Sherry Kuehl, and Adam Kortekas. Without you, I’d just be a lady with a computer and a suitcase of unfulfilled dreams. Thank you for helping make my most audacious wishes come true.
Contents
Prologue
1. Ivy Peterman
2. Evelyn Dixon
3. Evelyn Dixon
4. Ivy Peterman
5. Evelyn Dixon
6. Ivy Peterman
7. Evelyn Dixon
8. Evelyn Dixon
9. Ivy Peterman
10. Evelyn Dixon
11. Evelyn Dixon
12. Ivy Peterman
13. Evelyn Dixon
14. Ivy Peterman
15. Evelyn Dixon
16. Evelyn Dixon
17. Ivy Peterman
18. Evelyn Dixon
19. Ivy Peterman
20. Evelyn Dixon
21. Ivy Peterman
22. Evelyn Dixon
23. Evelyn Dixon
24. Ivy Peterman
25. Evelyn Dixon
26. Evelyn Dixon
27. Evelyn Dixon
28. Evelyn Dixon
29. Ivy Peterman
30. Ivy Peterman
31. Evelyn Dixon
32. Ivy Peterman
33. Evelyn Dixon
34. Ivy Peterman
35. Ivy Peterman
36. Evelyn Dixon
37. Ivy Peterman
38. Ivy Peterman
39. Evelyn Dixon
40. Evelyn Dixon
41. Ivy Peterman
Epilogue: Ivy Peterman
Author’s Note
A Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
Letter to Reader
Prologue
The counselor is young, blond, and pretty, and obviously nervous. She glances at her reflection in the wall mirror when she enters the waiting room, adjusts her collar, and clears her throat before extending her hand toward me with a wide, rehearsed smile and a request for me to follow her back to her office.
After a quick kiss and a promise that I’ll see them in a few minutes, Bethany and Bobby obediently accompany a volunteer to the playroom where they will wait until I finish the intake interview. I follow the counselor down a wide hallway with recessed lights in the ceiling and thick, fawn-colored carpeting on the floors.
This is a strange place. More like an upscale hotel than a women’s shelter, at least not like any shelter we’ve been in before. Everything is so quiet and everyone on the staff is so welcoming, as if they’ve all been recruited from the ranks of retired desk clerks and children’s librarians, kind and purposely calm. Well, almost everyone.
As we approach a turn in the corridor, I hear the sound of two women arguing, politely but heatedly. One voice is strained and restrained, trying to appease another, slightly louder voice that belongs to someone skilled in the art of employing clipped, educated enunciation to intimidate those who disagree with her, the voice of a woman who is used to having her own way.
“Abigail, I’m on your side. You know I am,” the first voice says. “But this is a shelter, not a balloon. You can’t just blow more women into it like so many extra puffs of air and think it will just keep expanding to make room for the additional volume. I wish we could accommodate everyone who comes through the door, but we can’t. We’ve only got so many beds.”
“And that is exactly my point. Every month we have more people coming through the door than we did the month before. It’s the worst sort of foolishness to think that trend is suddenly going to reverse itself. So why is the board dragging its feet? No! Don’t interrupt me. You don’t need to say it. I’ve heard it all before. ‘These things take time. We should do a feasibility study. Or take a poll. Or hire a consultant.’ Rubbish! We don’t need to do any of that. We need to hire an architect and a bulldozer. Today! I am sick and tired of sitting in meetings, listening to Ted Carney drone on about stiffening intake standards while the rest of the board sit and stare at their navels and do nothing! If it’s a matter of money, I’ll write a check tomorrow. I…”
“Abigail,” the first voice says wearily, “it’s not just about the money. You know that. It’s a question of space. We simply don’t have it…”
My heart sinks. It’s the same old story; no room at the inn. I should have expected this. Every shelter has more requests than it can handle, but everyone has been so pleasant since we walked in the door that I dared to hope there might be room for us right away. Maybe if we wait a few days. I dread the thought of sleeping in the car again, but what else can I do? Besides, this is such a nice place, so clean and quiet. If we could stay here, even for a week or two, maybe I’d be able to clear my head long enough to figure out a plan to exit the revolving door that leads from one shelter to the next and get the kids into a real home—at least for a while. I’m so tired of sleeping in a different spot every night. I’m so tired of being so tired, but from the sound of things, there is no place for us here. I should have known better than to get my hopes up.
As we round the corner, I see the counselor consciously straighten her shoulders and smooth her hair. The women halt their conversation as we approach. The counselor’s voice lifts to a slightly higher register as she introduces us. The first woman, I am told, the one with a genuine smile and dark brown eyes that match her