Every Waking Hour

By Paisley Smith

English professor Della Boyd has worked hard to carve out a career for herself in the male-dominated 1950s South. Having escaped an unpleasant childhood, she resolves to keep her nose to the grindstone and work her way up the university ladder. All that changes, however, when she meets her favorite author, Grayson Garland, whose androgynous beauty and taboo kisses cause Della to question everything she's always believed.

When Grayson Garland returns to bury her father, the world renowned, eccentric Southern author sets the small town of Rome, Alabama on its ear. But the old antebellum mansion she once called home is haunted with dark secrets Gray is reluctant to face. Sultry nights in the arms of a pretty, oh-so-feminine professor provide ample distraction, but unless Gray can summon the courage to confront her demons, even Della's love won't be able to save her from herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paisley Smith
• Release date: Apr 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386639190

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Paisley Smith

EVERY WAKING HOUR

Copyright © January 2018 by Paisley Smith

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Paisley Smith. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN

Editor: Jana J. Hanson

Cover Artist: Debra Glass

Printed in the United States of America

Published by

Paisley Smith

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

SPECIAL THANKS TO NAIMA Simone, my wonderfully talented critique partner, and to my grandmother, who shared so many stories about nursing in the ’50s that inspired me to write this book.

Chapter One

ALABAMA, 1957

Professor Della Boyd perched on top of the desk in her classroom, her legs crossed. She smoothed her palm over the velvety paper of the book lying open on her lap. After returning a fugitive strand of hair back into her usually tidy French twist, she glanced up at the collage of mostly male faces. Almost her entire Twentieth Century American Literature class consisted of young men. And nearly all of those were seated on the front row. It should have flattered her—a young, unmarried professor.

But it didn’t.

She’d always been too bookish to be concerned with dating. Perhaps years of reading about knights errant and their ladies faire had ruined her for the real world. The few times she’d been with a man had left her cold and wondering if true love really was the stuff of fiction.

Besides, from the vapid expressions on their faces, none of these rather eager young men truly grasped the fragile beauty of the words she’d just read aloud. None of them could share the images this author, in particular, evoked in Della’s mind’s eye. In her heart.

She turned her face toward the gentle breeze that sighed through the open windows of Bibb Graves Hall, relishing in the elusive reprieve to the sultry Alabama summer heat. The soft rustle of pages and a bird singing on a limb of the massive oak looming just outside interrupted the silence pervading the classroom as the students waited for her to read.

Even though she knew this passage by heart, Della took a quick look at her book before she read aloud with much sentiment and admiration. ‘The moment hung stagnant with hopelessness, like the heaviness following a summer storm. ’

The words inundated her. Seeped in through her skin like the damp. She wanted to close her eyes, to let the passage transport her, to absolve herself in this self-indulgent love of American lit, but she couldn’t.

A ginger-haired boy two seats back checked his watch. Restless others had already gathered their things.

Della inhaled, carefully placed her bookmark and then closed the book, the afterglow of words still humming her through her. I want you to write, for our next class, a two-hundred-and-fifty-word essay explaining what Grayson Garland meant by that statement.

A cacophony of mumblings arose from the classmates, followed by the sound of books and notebooks being closed and the scuffle of students vacating their desks. Always the groans.

Class dismissed, she said and slid off her desk. She gathered her notes and books and stuffed them into her bag.

Grayson Garland.

Della’s favorite Southern author, Garland had been born right here in Rome, Alabama. At twenty-eight she’d even won a Pulitzer Prize in literature for one of her plays. She’d penned several popular short stories, novels, plays, even screenplays. Early success had afforded her a huge house in Beverly Hills, where it was rumored she lived like a reclusive movie star.

She’d shunned photographers and awards ceremonies, refused interviews and autographs.

It was this dichotomy—the blunt intimacy of her work against her zealously guarded private life—that made Garland fascinating.

It’d been years since she’d visited Alabama, although her invalid father, James Garland, still inhabited the family plantation house out on Gunwaleford Road.

Garland had, in fact, been one of the reasons Della had taken the position at the Mercer College when it had been offered to her right after completing her master’s at Columbia.

Miss Boyd. One of her students shattered her reverie.

Yes? Della asked, glancing up at the ponytailed girl’s bright, eager face.

Marlene held her books up to her chest and shifted her weight casually to one leg.

I really love all this stuff we’re reading by Grayson Garland, Marlene said with a smile. You know, my daddy used to work on her daddy’s land back when she was a girl growing up here.

Della smiled indulgently.

Have you ever met her? Marlene asked.

Della shook her head. No.

I think we’re kin somehow on her momma’s side.

That so?

I haven’t ever met her, though. Gosh...I wonder what she’s like, Marlene mused. After reading her stuff, you know? It’s kinda hard to believe she’s from here and all. I read her last book, the one about the farmer in California. It didn’t have the same feel as her older stuff.

Della had read that book as well and hadn’t wanted to admit to herself or anyone else she found the subject and lack of feeling in the writing supremely disappointing.

Have you ever seen a picture of her? Marlene inquired.

Della shook her head as she continued to pack her papers into the leather bag she carried. You know she rarely gives interviews and won’t allow herself to be photographed any longer for the book jackets. The last picture I saw of her... God, she must have been in her early twenties. People such as Garland are extremely private.

Yeah, Marlene added. I bet she’s fabulously sophisticated.

GET THE HELL OUT AND don’t ever come back! the bouncer yelled from the doorway of the Classic Cat strip club.

Grayson Garland struggled to maintain her balance as she staggered a few feet down the sidewalk. The world seemed horribly off-kilter. Without warning the sidewalk rose to meet her. Dull pain shot through her hands and knees. Shit. She’d fallen. She laughed and then struggled to find the bouncer’s face in the drunken whirl that was her vision. D-do you know who...who I am? she managed against her thick tongue.

She plopped heavily onto her bottom and drew out a box of matches from the pocket of the men’s trousers she wore. Well, do ya? she asked as she attempted to center the match flame long enough to bring it to the end of the cigarette dangling from her lip. A lock of her short, chestnut-brown hair stole across her forehead, threatening to fall into the path of the burning match.

"I know who you are. Grayson Garland. Pulitzer Prize-winning author. I also know you’re plastered. Now scram! We don’t want your kind in here."

Forehead furrowed, Gray stared for a moment. Had that brute insulted her? She tried to stand but wilted to the ground once more, breaking into laughter as she did.

Jesus, the bouncer said, and then he turned impatiently to the man who was collecting the cover charges. Did somebody call her a cab?

I don’t know why you kicked me out, Grayson mumbled. My money’s as good as anybody’s.

A battered yellow taxi puttered up to the curb.

That for me? Gray asked, cigarette bouncing.

Beat it, the bouncer said, shooing with his hands.

Fuck off. Grayson immediately regretted her bold words when the bouncer charged toward her and hauled her up by the scruff of her shirt.

No need to go ape on me, Clyde. I can walk, Grayson protested. For an instant she attempted a serious expression but then blurted a laugh once more and swayed sideways toward the cab, slinking toward the ground with every step.

The bouncer manhandled her into the taxi and shut the door. Where to? the driver asked.

Well, let me see... Grayson began.

The bouncer leaned over and looked into the passenger-side window. That’s Grayson Garland.

The driver’s brow furrowed, and he looked into the backseat at Grayson, who’d given up trying to remember her address. She sat, attempting to blow smoke rings but to no avail.

Her? the cabby asked incredulously.

The bouncer shrugged.

As the cabby drove Grayson home, he kept glancing in his rearview mirror. Grayson knew what the man was thinking. It must be hard to believe this drunken bulldicker was the famous writer.

She slumped in the backseat, entertaining herself by rolling down the window. Rolling up the window. Opening and closing the ashtray. Pulling the lock up and down. Anything to occupy her rampant thoughts, to slow their wild stampede through her head. Anything to quiet the voices.

Hey, Miss Garland...don’t open the door, now, the cabby warned.

Gray only snorted at him. Open the door, indeed. The thought of her body falling out on a busy Los Angeles freeway played through her head. She could imagine the headlines. Hell, they might even canonize her. Saint Grayson. Now that thought amused her.

Her house loomed into view, and she wondered how they’d gotten there so quickly—for that matter, she wondered how they’d gotten there at all. The cabby pulled the car into the circular drive and got out.

Grayson swiped her hair back from her face. Jesus, what a colossal mess she was. She must reek of bourbon. Not that she gave a damn. Her clothes were stained where she’d obviously spilled as much as she’d consumed. The still-smoldering cigarette drooped from her bottom lip, a long trail of ashes swaying from its end. But none of it really mattered. That was the beauty of bourbon.

Miss Garland, the cabby said uncertainly. You awake back there?

Grayson blinked. Even in this stupor, she possessed the exceptional ability to focus on every detail about the man. His gold-capped incisor, his pale blue eyes, one already dull and watery with the first sign of cataracts, yellowed skin, presumably from years of smoking.

Gray snorted. If she wrote a character with that description in one of her books, the critics would have a heyday with it. Stereotypes, they’d yell. Garland is washed-up. A has-been.

We’re here, Miss Garland. Can I help you inside?

No thanks, Grayson said clumsily as she fought with the door handle.

Suddenly she succeeded, and when the door flung open, she wilted out onto the pavers. Had that hurt? She was too numb to know.

The front door to the house opened. She didn’t have to look up to know it was her assistant, Maynard. Miss Garland, Maynard scolded as he scurried out to help her up from the ground. He thrust a wad of bills at the cabby. Thank you for your trouble.

You’re a good man, Maynard, Grayson said, poking him in the chest.

Come along inside, Maynard urged in his staid British accent.

Gray slumped against him as she navigated the steps, the doorway, and the slick marble floor of the foyer. She flopped onto the white leather sofa and looked around the room incredulously. I don’t remember coming home.

I’ll make some coffee, Miss Garland.

Most certainly, Grayson said, mocking his accent. Then with an impish smile, she added, "Irish coffee."

Maynard would ignore her request for Irish whiskey, of course.

Gray’s gaze drifted over all the finery surrounding her, stopping on a rather hideous vase. Her hand curled into a fist. She’d like to smash that insipid vase, to watch it shatter across the hard, cold marble. But the bourbon had numbed her, made her heavy and lethargic.

There was a bottle in the drawer of her nightstand. Just enough to lull her into sleep. Just enough to let her forget for one more night that this was all an illusion. Her career was in the shitter. Long, fruitless hours at the typewriter had yielded nothing of substance. Hell. Nothing at all. The house was mortgaged to the teeth. Maynard had all but exhausted his excuses to the bill collectors.

Desperation to escape clawed at her. Left her trembling. Her breathing quickened and she braced herself to stand, but Maynard returned with a cup of strong black coffee.

She sipped it obediently, dreading the lucidity that came with coffee-induced sobriety.

Miss Garland, Maynard said after she’d drained half the cup.

Gray peered over the rim. Maynard’s deeply lined face, dominated by his large, hollow eyes, always bore a serious expression. Today, though, it was even more dour.

A telegram arrived for you.

A telegram? Who in the hell sends telegrams any more? Somebody must’ve died, she said, her voice tinged with humor, her gaze meeting Maynard’s. Is that it, old chap? Did someone kick the proverbial bucket?

He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin almost imperceptibly as he handed her the little slip of paper. My condolences, Miss Garland. Your father has passed away.

The effects of the fifth of bourbon she’d consumed over the course of the evening ebbed like a wave sucking back to the sea. Gray blinked.

Regret to inform you...

Extended illness...

Minnie...

Grayson stared at the words. Not breathing. It was as if she were waiting for some realization to wash over her. Some feeling of emptiness. Of regret. Something.

But nothing did. Nothing at all.

She snorted. So the old bastard is dead. Well, good.

HERE YOU ARE, WILL said as he pulled up outside Della’s apartment.

Della looked out the car window to the stairs that led up to her door and then back at Will. Want to come inside?

Not tonight. Early class tomorrow, her boss, the head of the English department, Dr. Will Ticknor, said.

More than all those things, she wondered if he was her boyfriend. Boyfriend. The term sounded funny inside Della’s head. He was far too old to be considered a boy. Forty-eight to her twenty-eight.

What they shared couldn’t really be deemed a romantic liaison.

With his careless strawberry-blond hair and fair skin, he was handsome in an intellectual, owlish sort of way. Della liked his round, wire-framed glasses and the almost threadbare tweed coat with the leather patches on the elbows he wore in the fall. To outsiders his look seemed cavalier, as if he didn’t have time for something as common as being concerned with his appearance. But Della knew it was just a facade. He looked in the mirror plenty when he thought no one was watching.

Their dates consisted of lunches at the diner and maybe an occasional movie or play. They’d only been intimate once. It had been one of those situations. A party. A couple of drinks. Who was she fooling? A couple of bottles. Sex with him hadn’t been anything special and had left her feeling cheap and disappointed. She’d cried after he left, the whole sexual experience seeming repulsive to her. He hadn’t made any attempt to sleep with her since.

The next day they’d both been embarrassed, although they’d continued to date on a casual basis.

Mostly Will seemed to regard her as an extra pair of eyes for the novel he’d been rewriting since receiving yet another rejection form letter from a publisher he’d queried. While he showed some talent, writing hardly came naturally to him. And yet he gave the impression he was convinced he was writing the next great American novel.

Della didn’t have the heart to truly critique his manuscript, not that he would have accepted any of her comments as constructive criticism. Will possessed an ego that far superseded his talent or station in life.

But who else was there in Rome, Alabama, for her to date?

Della considered herself socially inept as far as men and dating were concerned. A self-proclaimed bookworm, she spent her Friday and Saturday nights in the library instead of out dancing or going to parties with her friends.

Since her childhood, she’d been more of a loner than an extrovert. Perhaps it was just a defense mechanism. Something she’d done to protect herself from those questions that still haunted her.

How did you get that black eye?

What happened to your arm?

Why weren’t you at school yesterday?

She blinked away the memories. She’d escaped all that. And yet the two-hundred-odd miles that separated her from her father were not nearly enough.

Will got out, sauntered around the car, and opened the door for her. He kissed her quickly and chastely, his lips leaving a damp spot on her cheek. Good night, Del. See you tomorrow.

Good night, she said and smiled before she hurried up the sidewalk to the apartment she shared with her brother.

WELCOME TO ALABAMA

The paint on the faded sign, marking the Alabama-Mississippi state line, peeled mercilessly in the unforgiving southern sun, nearly obscuring the overgrown picture of a cotton boll.

As she raced past in her convertible Grayson sneered with disdain at the sign and all it stood for.

She’d forgotten how hot and humid it was here, the sun so close and bright it seemed as if everything would suddenly burst into flames.

She’d dreaded this.

This homecoming.

She beat a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel with her thumbs. Damn the son of bitch for dying and making her come home. She’d taken her sweet time making the cross-country trip just to put off the inevitable a little while longer. And of course, a little revenge on the old man was warranted. They’d have to wait on Gray to get there before they planted the codger.

Gray grimaced. Awaiting her were cousins, distant aunts, the old man’s church friends. Pie-wagging, dish-bearing country kinfolk, doubtless anxious to lay eyes on the infamous Grayson Garland. She blew out a sigh, dreading seeing all those slow-talking, drawling rubes who went to church every time the doors opened and who ate fried chicken for Sunday dinner while she lay in bed sleeping off Saturday night.

Hell. The only person she’d ever missed was Minnie.

Gray couldn’t quell the smile that played on her lips at the memory of the woman who’d been the mother to her that her own had not. Minnie had raised her. She’d diapered her and fed her.

Minnie had loved her.

Gray swallowed thickly.

Minnie also held the dubious honor of being the only person Gray had ever loved. The great-granddaughter of one of Gray’s great-grandfather’s slaves, Minnie’s mother and her mother before her had cared for Garland children for over a century.

Grayson reached between her legs and retrieved the bottle of bourbon she’d been nursing since Arkansas. She turned it up and sipped before wiping the excess from her lips with the back of her sleeve. It’d be good to feel Minnie’s strong arms enveloping her like big old angel’s wings once more. Mercy, those arms would