Home Is Where Your Boots Are

By Kalan Chapman Lloyd

The MisAdventures of Miss Lilly, Vol. 1
“Old habits never die. They just get harder to justify.”
Heartbreak. Home. Gunshots.
Former small town girl turned big city lawyer Lilly Atkins has tidily checked off her adult to-do list. Prestigious law degree Flourishing career Designer wardrobe Well-bred fiancé In a moment of cliché, her list gets whipped out the window. And run over a few times. So she heads home to Brooks. Where the creek is cool and the gossip is always hot. With nothing better to do, Lilly sets up shop to work off her broken heart. Before the paint can dry, her former flame, Dr. Cash Stetson, shows up requesting representation. For his divorce. Two new clients involve murder: a possible negligent homicide and the desecration of human remains, both cases stemming from the local hospital. Run by Cash. When her not so unrequited love’s wife turns up dead, Lilly begins to wonder if the former bad-boy is up to no good.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312888302

Book preview

Home Is

Where Your

Boots Are

The MisAdventures of Miss Lilly

Volume One

Kalan Chapman Lloyd

Home Is Where Your Boots Are is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, alive or dead, businesses, events or a locale is entirely coincidental.

2017 Rebelle Press e-edition

Copyright © 2015 Kalan Chapman Lloyd.

Excerpt from These Boots Are Made For Butt-Kickin’ by Kalan Chapman Lloyd copyright © 2015 Kalan Chapman Lloyd.

All rights reserved.

Edited by Kara Beth Chapman

Published in the United States by Rebelle Press.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book These Boots Are Made For Butt-Kickin’ by Kalan Chapman Lloyd. This excerpt has been released for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

ISBN 978-1-312-88828-9

eBook ISBN 978-1-312-88830-2

Cover image: Catie Lawrence

Typography: Carrie Ryan

Fonts: Sexsmith and Honey Script

Printed in the United States of America

Rebelle Press e-edition: 2017

For Grant

Chapter One

I’m going home. Not by choice. Not necessarily by force either. Rather by a lack of options that have brought me to return to that place I left behind to become the person I knew I could never be if I stayed. If you come from a small town, you can probably appreciate the stifling feeling that accompanies seeing someone you know every time you step out of the house. Try going to Wal-Mart on a Saturday without mascara. Are you sick, dear? Where’s your mother, sweetheart? Does she know you’ve come to town alone? and so on and so forth.

My mother and my Nonnie instilled in me the values they believed every good Oklahoma girl must live by. Topping the list was never leaving home without mascara and lip gloss, no matter the circumstance. My Nonnie often noted that assertiveness hidden behind a southern simper would win many a battle. She’s often been right. My practiced simper and smile have won many a case in court and legal tangle over the boardroom table.

Unfortunately, my well-informed upbringing wasn’t enough to stop my personal life from crashing down over my head. My well-organized world with my glossy day planner, color-coordinated electronic calendar, manicures, pedicures, and blowouts; my trips to the gym, my designer-decorated apartment and my goal-oriented fiancé no longer existed. In fact, the woman I was two weeks ago wouldn’t recognize the girl I am today.

That girl is driving toward the Oklahoma-Texas line in the Jeep Cherokee I’d bought to replace the leased vintage Jaguar convertible I no longer needed, with my hair snarled in a riotous array of curls, courtesy of the hot July wind I’d let into the Jeep via the open windows. This mascara-less female pulling the U-Haul behind the Jeep had barely managed to smear on some Chapstick from a dusty bathrooms-outside convenience store.

Fortunately, I guess, my hometown had lovingly started a prayer chain when they’d found out what happened. I couldn’t wait to get home and stand up in church for them to publicly recognize my mistake(s) back in Dallas. Insert sarcasm here. Since it seemed I couldn’t work up a good sentence to God, it was probably a good thing someone else was doing it for me.

I left. My expensive, tasteful apartment in the hip, young professional, newly renovated, rundown downtown area, decorated with cool shades of mint, khaki, and butternut. I left all my cultivated clients in the midst of high profile, multi-million dollar real estate transactions. The only things I’d held on to were my shoes, clothes, and cosmetic products, a few essential knick-knacks, some photos, and my great-grandmother’s quilt. I left, because two weeks ago in a moment of cliché, I discovered that high maintenance was simply an excuse to ignore the realities of life. Because two weeks ago, as I had let myself into my fiancé’s apartment with the intention of fixing him a home cooked meal and taking care of resurrecting the relationship we had neglected for work schedules, I discovered something else about him.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that my good intentions were met with Van’s lack of. While I had been feeling guilty for being distracted, he had decided to pay his secretary overtime to make up for my lack of attention. As I walked into Van’s apartment immersed in thoughts of pan-seared honey-glazed salmon with homemade wheat French bread and chocolate cheesecake, I was mulling over the important decision of what vegetable would complement the fish. Consequently, I didn’t hear the soft sounds right away. In fact, I didn’t become cognizant of something being amiss until I had arranged everything for prep on the butcher-block cooking island in Van’s kitchen. It wasn’t until after I had put the champagne to chill that I felt pulled to venture into Van’s bedroom. By the way, Van’s full name is Van Payton Ehlers the Third, which should have tipped me off that he would be the kind of guy to cheat on me.

But that’s judgmental. And I digress.

Like the naïve, small town girl I oft claimed I no longer was, I followed the sounds of the infidel back to his lair, not once thinking what might await me. I’m sure the tension is just building. Actually, the one coherent thought I did have, between the eternal debate over green beans and a broccoli carrot medley, was that Van must have come home early and cut himself shaving. Van tends to have a low tolerance for pain. That and his weak chin, coupled with his terrible name, also should have been indicators of what was coming. In reality, I should not have been all that shocked, surprised, or dismayed when I walked into Van’s tastefully decorated bedroom (courtesy of me) and found him in the throes with the trashy twit he’d hired to answer his phones and fetch his dry-cleaning.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not that judgmental. She was trashy because she was boffing my fiancé, not because of her cheap shoes. Her long ashy blond hair hung snarled from its previous updo, and I considered commenting on her roots. They were both immersed in the boffing at hand and didn’t see me standing in the doorframe eyeing them with bemused detachment. My lack of fury and bloodlust are probably indicative of how superficial my relationship with Van really was.

Van is one of those yuppie types who grew up knowing exactly where he was going and what he had to do to get there. Mainly because his parents informed him at each important increment.

There were a few indiscretions scattered throughout his past. Inappropriate girlfriends in college, beer drinking at frat parties, and a test-selling scandal were things I thought he’d grown out of. I had erroneously assumed that these wild oats had been sown.

Van is tall, not really distinguished looking, but with enough of the accessories to give him the appearance of the old money he is. The money and the confident strut he’d been born with never failed to get him what he wanted (or rather what his parents told him he wanted). We met in our second year of law school at SMU in Dallas at a late night poker game. My high school boyfriend had been a killer poker player, and I’d picked up pointers.

I’d cleaned Van out. Van was the kind of guy who didn’t see me beating him as a hit to his masculinity, only a boon for opportunity. I liked that. That, and my weakness for blue eyes, his class, and his charm drew me to him. Didn’t George Strait sing about those things at some point? I was the girl his mother told him he needed by his side to help him achieve her dream of him being a Texas state senator. I liked the height, the eyes; and although I’d never been all that attracted to blondes, we seemed a perfect match. If I were truly honest, I would have to admit that the theory of Van and the idea of our life together, so very different from the one I’d grown up with, were great draws as well. However, while honesty might be the best policy, it’s not necessarily my favorite policy, and I tend to keep myself firmly ensconced in a bubble whenever I can. Anyway.

Upon graduation (with me at the head of the class, him not), we got engaged, and I wore the heavy Ehlers platinum setting with pride, although my true tastes would have probably run to the less conventional. We set to work with our respective law firms: me at Hurst and Edwards working in real estate law and him consulting for the cities of Plano, Frisco and Colleyville. Three years later the parents of Lillian Katherine Atkins and Van Payton Ehlers the Third announced an early June affair at the Highland Park Methodist Church in downtown Dallas. I had figured it somewhat normal for tensions to run high, and I figured that as soon as we were in Fiji on our honeymoon we would resume the pursuit of attention. Apparently, Van decided to pursue the attention of someone else… someone who was very much not the person whose finger he’d put a ring on.

So there I’d been, on the twenty-third of May with a cake ordered, a Vera Wang original in my closet, the crème de la crème of Dallas society informing me of whether they preferred duck or lamb, standing in the doorway of the master bedroom of Van’s Highland Park townhouse watching my fiancé working out his pre-wedding stress with his secretary, who I often suspected had at one time lived with at least one car propped on cinder blocks as a lawn ornament. Bless her heart.

I waffled between taking off my stiletto and ramming the sharp point between his Botoxed (for his migraines!) eyebrows and just walking out and never going back. I took a deep breath and prepared to announce my presence, drawing on my dry wit to disguise the disgust and twisted knot of anxiety currently occupying every ounce of my being. Affecting a boredom I did not feel, I searched for something clever. Something that would upset Van enough to feel some of what I was feeling.

Those sheets are designer, Van. And that cheap spray tan is going to leave a stain.

Chapter Two

I shook my head over the memory of Van. I turned on the radio; some indie rockabilly poured out of the speakers. The tough-sweet voice of the singer urged her cheating lover to go away. I turned onto a two-lane highway. Hopefully the sonuvabitch would stay away.

My name’s Lilly Atkins. I love Jesus and I cuss. A little. Or a lot, depending on the situation. You could call me a contradiction, in looks and character. My hair is naturally a wild mess of curls that I like to try to tame with a daily attack of straightening balms and irons. I’m attractive, although pretty would never be a word used to describe me. I have big hazel eyes with flecks of gold and hair the same color. I have big full lips and a strong nose. Like I said, pretty isn’t the right word. It conjures up images of sweet and soft looks. I’m striking and I stand out. I’m not the beauty my sister is, but I’ve managed to turn a few heads in my twenty-eight years. I’ve been genetically blessed with long legs and an above average height of 5’9." I lean heavily toward bling; understandable since I have several tiaras I picked up on the junior rodeo circuit. I tried hard to hide my natural inclination for sequins when I arrived in Dallas, avoiding glitz and slipping on subdued. My outrageous and expensive shoe choices were the only throwback to my past.

So I’d packed my designer shoes and my uptight suits and headed for Oklahoma, back to my hometown, Brooks. Back to my family and the people I’d left behind, dragging a U-Haul behind my newly acquired Jeep, looking like a shadow of my formerly badass attorney self.

They say the first half of your life is spent trying to escape a small town and the other half is spent trying to get back there. I was apparently starting my mid-life crisis early.

I passed under a canopy of trees lining the dirt road of my childhood, smiling for the first time since I’d left Texas as the late afternoon sunshine filtered through the money-green leaves. I pulled into my grandparent’s gravel driveway and had barely slammed the door to the Jeep when my Nonnie came flying out of her overly decorated house, the screen door flapping behind her. She breezed by the potted fake flowers on her porch and marched over to where I stood breathing in the clean country air.

My Nonnie is hell on wheels. Raised as a true genteel Southern belle in Louisiana, she’d grown up in the era of grace and charm. She could sell ice to an Eskimo, and I’d never seen her not get her way. Nonnie had kept her tongue in check for the better part of her life, until, at age fifty-seven, she’d had a pacemaker installed. Since then, we never could quite keep a handle on what came out of her mouth. She’d become shameless, and we often wondered if they’d wound her too tight when they had installed the thing.

Ooooh, honey! Look at you! You have been drinking too much coffee and forgetting to eat. It’s about time you got your butt here. We’re celebrating this long-overdue homecoming. I made meatballs and gravy, your favorite. Nonnie’s glasses had slipped off her pert little nose and her tightly curled, short, salt and pepper hair stuck out at odd angles. She kind of resembled the older, female version of the nutty professor. Her skinny chicken legs picked up speed as she descended upon me and proceeded to wrap me in one of her hugs. I had to bend to reach her ferocious 5’2" embrace.

I hadn’t cried when I’d found Van, or when I packed my things, or when I crossed the border, or canceled my gym membership and standing weekly blowout; but when I hugged my grandmother and listened to her chatter about meatballs, the tears started to creep into my eyes. Nonnie, sensing my emotion, pulled back and, taking me by the arms, regarded me sternly.

Baby, dry those tears up quick. We haven’t got time for you to indulge in a pity party, although I’m sure it’s well deserved. I’ve been going crazy trying to get your room set up over at Tally’s, and I’m still not done. You can work out your frustration and tears by helping me polish some more furniture.

Miss Minnie Culvert had taught first grade for forty years before she took over Poppa Joe’s financial records for the ranch. She still thinks she’s leading a line of kids, and talks to everyone like she’s in front of the class.

Come see what I sold this week. Things have been flying off the screen. Nonnie had recently discovered the Internet and was slowly selling off the crap Poppa Joe had accumulated over the years. After hearing how much money she was making on the so-called crap, Tally had called me, worried that Nonnie was selling off our inheritance. I figured anything that kept Nonnie occupied had to be a positive thing.

As we turned to go inside, as if by command, a big black Cadillac pulled into Nonnie’s circular driveway. The driver’s side door opened slowly and a Coach wedge extended itself, followed by a regal leg, followed by my mama. Mama was a genuine lady, from the top of her perfectly coiffed head to the tips of her manicured nails. She behaved as Nonnie had raised her to behave and never failed to live up to the standards Nonnie had set sans pacemaker. My mama was one of those women who could first be described as fluttery with her soft pretty looks and immaculate appearance, until she was driven to show her hand; then she was a formidable

Reviews for Home Is Where Your Boots Are

[saschad-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm an eclectic reader. I will read almost anything, even the back of cereal boxes if there's nothing else. One component that really rocks my library is when an author has a sense of humor. I go along with Reader's Digest on this: Laughter is the best medicine. (A quick net search doesn't yield who originally coined the phrase but one of the closest is a quote by Henry Ward Beecher: Mirth is God’s medicine, so I'll stick with good old Reader's Digest on this one.) Anyway, that's certainly a digression, but it leads me to Home Is Where Your Boots Are by Kalan Chapman Lloyd.

Home Is Where Your Boots Are is funny. While the formula of a small town with lovable eccentric characters and a feisty heroine has been done before, Chapman Lloyd gives it her own touch, Oklahoma style. The heroine, Lilly Atkins, left Brooks, Oklahoma to go to college. She then became a lawyer and then became engaged to wealthy Van Payton Ehlers the third of the Dallas Ehlers. When Lilly discovers her fiance boinking another woman, Lilly hears home calling and returns to her support system in Brooks.cover82764-medium

But Lilly isn't really licking her wounds. Deep down she suspected that Ehlers wasn't right for her and the fact that she isn't more upset doesn't surprise her. It becomes even more apparent when Lilly encounters Cash, her old boyfriend.

Lilly's feelings toward Cash are complicated. She acknowledges this. Her level of self-understanding is one thing I really like about this character. After reading so many books where the heroine is self-deluded or defiantly tough, it was the clichéd breath-of-fresh-air to meet Lilly Atkins. She has faults--an acknowledged weak stomach and a weakness for Cash; she has strengths--she's smart and loyal; and she comes across as someone you really might meet, and even like.

As the community welcomes Lilly home, she decides that this is really what she needs and wants and decides to set up lawyering shop in Brooks. Immediately she gets embroiled in a mystery. And then there's an encounter with the "hot" mysterious Yankee Spencer Locke.

The story is pretty satisfying as is the quirky world that Chapman Lloyd has built. There are some wickedly funny lines and some philosophizing. For categorization, I would almost place this under the sub-genre of cozy mystery except that there is a touch of profanity, which is typically absent from those mysteries.

The narrative tone is conversational and sometimes on the verbose-side, a little paring down for comprehension-sake would not be unwanted. With that said, this novel definitely deserves sequels, which I hope are as good as this debut, which was first published in 2010 and then republished in 2015.

This was based on a RC from NetGalley for an honest review.

[liscarey · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Lilly Atkins left small town Brooks, Oklahoma to be a big city lawyer in Dallas, and was quite successful at--until everything came crashing down with the discovery of her fiancé in their shared bed with his secretary. Now she's home in Brooks, setting up a local law practice.

She knows she's got trouble when her high school on-and-off boyfriend walks in the door, wanting her to handle his divorce. She just doesn't know how much trouble.

Lilly Atkins and her female family and friends take the duties and responsibilities of Southern womanhood very seriously, and that means some entertaining petty revenge when the husband of one of their number is caught cheating on her. It's a bit less clear what it means when Lilly's former boyfriend, now a doctor and running the local hospital, in addition to wanting a divorce, may also be engaged in organ smuggling.

The overall tone of this is light and humorous, and yet it really is, in part, about organ smuggling. That created a certain dissonance for me, that I wasn't happy about. Of course, it's also about small town closeness, the importance of family and friends, and remembering where you came from, and the light humor is far more appropriate for that.

I do rather like Lilly.

Enjoyable, if you're only looking for a light distraction sort of read.

I bought this audiobook.

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The publisher's blurb gives hints but makes it sound boring. So not true! There's lots of gigglesnorts here when the girlfriends get together to help each other out with problems some are having with ratfink boyfriends. Ah, the good parts of small town life! Not going to recap the story because that's just silly, so I'll just go with read it yourself. But not with a cup of hot caffeine! I read the audio, and it's narrated by the author! Can't ever go wrong with that, and not to worry, the drawl is kind to Northern ears.

[sherdemomma-553971 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I received an e-copy of this story for an honest review.This story took me back to the time I lived in Oklahoma. Even though I was not a native Okie, and only lived there for 5 years, I miss those gatherings with my girls. The barbeques, the talks, the Bless her/his heart sessions. Yes, those things are real, and do happen in small towns. And, Sunday dinner is an absolute, do-not-miss-for-any-reason, event. Thank you Ms. Kalan for bringing back some good memories.