Lonely Candles

By T.F. Lyle

A captivating story novel based on life-changing true events.

It's 1988. Cline Lyle is working construction near Bryce Canyon the day he buys a birthday cake, and everything changes. Cline has the decorations, the presents, and the birthday candles -- but where's the guest of honor? After the police find an abandoned vehicle in a field out

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: Aug 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887387086

T.F. Lyle

Father and daughter author duo worked on Lonely Candles for years before dreaming it could be shared with others -- and they're honored you were at least interested enough to read the back cover! Cline currently resides in the peaceful lake town of Kimberling City, just outside the busy tourist hub of Branson. He and his wife, Cindy, enjoy spending time in the great outdoors of the Ozarks, going on random road trips, and being with their family. They are blessed by six children, all grown up now, in the order of David, Tiffany, Nathaniel, and his wife, Karina, and newborn son Gabriel, Kaleb, Jordan, and the youngest, Natalie. Cline's daughter, Tiffany, graduated from College of the Ozarks with a degree in journalism but decided she wanted to pursue the more creative side of her career. She currently works full-time in marketing and enjoys visiting coffee shops, going to craft festivals, and learning something new every day. You can view her professional profile here:https://tifyle987.wixsite.com/online-portfolio.

Book preview

Prologue

Lonely Candles is a true story based on the events of my father’s life, Cline The Wild Man Lyle. It’s an account of how a young rebel found God, how an alcoholic father found redemption and forgiveness, how the case of a missing mother and wife jumpstarted an ongoing search for answers, and how two young people found love in the midst of it all. 

Lonely Candles has gone through multiple edits and phases of change to ensure events are as accurate as possible. After multiple interviews, extensive amounts of research, and endless cups of coffee, the missing pieces of the puzzle are back together again.

I hope you enjoy this story as much as I have, and who knows, maybe you’ll even be inspired by it.

This is Lonely Candles.

A Freezer Burnt Cake

Looking back, 1990 was a great year. It was a time of R&B music, denim jackets, and a half-decent economy. I’m sure many other great things were going on that year, but where my story starts is on the specific day of November 22 or, as most of America knows it, Thanksgiving Day.

My newly wedded wife, Cynthia, and I were over at my older sister’s home, Bannie, that year in Kingman, Arizona. Bannie, her husband, Jerry, and their two boys, Jason and Justin; my half-brother, Tony, his wife, Marty, and their three kids, Sarah, Bryan, and Alicia; and my youngest sister, Laura, and her two daughters, Shanna and Cassandra, were all packed in and ready to chow down. 

I was excited and a bit anxious as we waited for the great feast. The women were working hard in the kitchen in a kind of chaotic unity as they talked, laughed, and carted food back and forth like the world’s most effective kitchen assembly line. I pitched in to help, along with some of the other guys, and did anything the ladies asked to make the dinner a family effort.

Soon, wafts of seasoned turkey, fresh bread, casseroles, and pie reached my nostrils and sent my stomach rumbling and taste buds craving.  

I took notice that my three nephews, Jason, twelve, Justin, ten, and Brian, eleven, were looking antsy, so I called them over to the living room, having an activity in mind guaranteed to work out their pent-up energy. 

Wrestling.

I put my hand out in a recognizable motion of ringing an imaginary wrestling bell with a sound effect to match, and we were off. The four of us rushed to the middle of the living room and met in a scramble of arms, legs, and laughter. It got to a point where I was kneeling on the carpet while my three nephews tried, unsuccessfully, I might add, to knock me over as I aligned my legs with the carpet and kept my arms in a locked, parallel position. After a good five minutes of the boys trying to one-up the old man and me, who were not budging an inch, they had to call for reinforcements.  

My wife, who had been cheering from the sidelines, saw the boys signal for aid. Not one for being left out, Cynthia got a running start and jumped onto the growing pile of relatives in an effort to knock me over.

It was a cute effort.

C’mon, you guys! she cried in encouragement. He’s not that strong! As if to prove her point, my wife used both arms to tackle one of my own, looking for a weak spot.

Jerry, Cynthia called out in desperation, get over here! 

Bannie’s husband was a tall, muscular man who was watching from the kitchen and would have been a great help if he wasn’t busy.

Can’t! Jerry called back. I’m cooking.

With no reinforcements on their way, my cousins doubled their attack on the same arm my wife was trying to pull out from under me. It was a valiant effort, but what they didn’t know was that, in my mind, if I imagined myself as an immovable rock, that’s what I became. 

No one could knock me over if I didn’t want them to. 

I was stubborn that way.

Hey, Klink, a voice called to me through a set of arms that blocked me from seeing who was speaking. Did you get the ice yet? 

I looked up to see my sister standing in the living room with an oven mitt over her right hand and an amused expression on her features. Bannie loved to give people nicknames. Mine was Klink because I liked to tinker with whatever I could get my hands on.

The five minutes are up, boys. Give your uncle a break.  

Much to the disappointment of my nephews, I wrestled myself free and headed to the basement door that led to a ground-level storage space. I flipped the light switch and watched the stairs come alight with a dim, yellow glow. The wooden steps squeaked loudly in protest with every step down right up until I reached the bottom. 

The basement area was filled with packed boxes, cans of nonperishable food items, and miscellaneous trinkets. I skirt around to head to the back corner where the freezer is. I opened the top door and am greeted by a small, scaled blizzard that swirls outward in cold greeting. As the ice particles settle, I spot the usual ice cube trays, some tubs of ice cream, and some TV dinners—all typical of a basement freezer. I see the bag of ice and go to grab it but spot something off in the corner that captured my eye. It looks like a cake.

Wait, a cake? 

It’s a two-level cake, wrapped in plastic and preserved like some semi-precious relic sitting on top of a metal barred shelf. With delicate fingers, I brush off a thin layer of ice powder and see yellow cursive lettering spell out Happy Birthday. The words are accompanied by a simple yellow rose placed on the right, and I recognize it as my mom’s favorite flower.  

I can’t believe my eyes. This isn’t any ordinary birthday cake. 

It’s the birthday cake—the same one I bought over two years ago. I remember Bannie saying she wanted to keep it, but it never occurred to me that she would. This cake holds more than a whipped-up concoction of sugar, flour, eggs, and whatever else they put in store-bought cake. It holds memory—lots of it. 

I don’t know how long I stand there with the freezer door open, looking at that cake. I had buried the thoughts associated with it deep down, yet my mind was rushing back to the very day I was up at Pine Lake. 

The day I bought a birthday cake, and everything changed. 

An Almost

Perfect Saturday

The day was August 27, 1988, and the morning was beautiful.

I was up at Pine Lake for work, which was about forty-seven minutes northeast of the Bryce Canyon National Park. It was an open expanse of land with crystal blue water, tall green pine trees, and distant orange mountain giants off on the horizon, speaking a quiet beauty. People came up to the lake from all over the country and the world to hike, fish, camp, and enjoy the stunning view.

Despite the summer season being in full swing, an elevation of over 8,000 feet at Pine Lake appropriately gave the air a cool, crisp feeling. After spending most of the summer at a lower elevation with warmer temperatures, the cool sensation was a welcome one.

I owned a little house, or shack if you want to get technical, on two and a half acres on the north side of Tropic, Utah. The shack was old, with log shaving for the siding, two windows, and a front and back door. There was no water in that little shack I called home and no functional restroom. I had an outhouse about ten yards from the shack and had to bring in water from the well by a bucket. Whatever my place lacked in visual appearance and modern plumbing was made up by the land surrounding it.

Not many people could say they had Bryce Canyon as their backyard; I could. 

The distant orange mountain structures were a constant reminder that I lived right next to what people all over the country and world had to travel for hours and sometimes days to see. There was a quiet to the land and a rugged sort of beauty that captivated the soul, which was the very reason why I often found myself standing outside in my socks during the early hours of the dawn, eager to catch the first light peek over the horizon and set the land aglow. 

If you have ever taken the shuttle provided at Bryce Canyon National Park, you’ll know that it will take passengers to several hiking areas and viewpoints on each run. From one particular viewpoint, you can see the little town of Tropic splayed over the land, looking like a miniature toy playset from afar. I lived right on the edge of town and could probably point to you the exact area I lived from that viewpoint.

Anyway, that morning, I was up bright and early at 5:30 for work and spent a few minutes watching the day come alive with my usual cup of coffee in hand. The coffee was strong enough to float pebbles, just as I liked it. When I was ready to go, I got in my army-green truck, rolled down one window, and kept the radio off as I drove at a decent pace to my job site. Why not have the radio on, you wonder? Well, let’s just say I enjoyed the silence almost as much as a good song.

When I arrived at Pine Lake, my heavy work boots made a distinct crunch, crunch, crunch as I walked over a bed of pine needles to an area where a group of men was moving around a concrete mixer truck. A crew of about ten men and I were laying out a drain pipe below a dam at the lake today, so the first thing I did was grab a set of gators to put over my denim jeans. I used the gators as an extra cover for my legs and to prevent the lime in the concrete from burning my skin, and, trust me, you don’t want that. 

I was getting my left leg through the gator sleeve when I heard a distant rumbling sound that matched a truck engine. A big truck. Not two seconds later, an oversized white Dodge truck came speeding up the hill like some feral animal on the hunt for its unlucky prey.  

The driver ground to a halt, and a wave of dust blew past the vehicle, seemingly in slow motion. Like something straight out of the movies, a stern-looking man stepped through a haze of dust with large black boots and an even larger scowl that seemed permanently sewn on his face. 

The man was none other than Dave Tucker, the owner and foreman of the Tucker’s Construction Company. 

What are you sitting around for? he screamed not two seconds after stepping out from the driver’s seat. It took me a second to realize the question was directed at me specifically.

I’m just getting my gators on, man, I answered as I gestured to the rain garb I was very obviously putting on. Guys like Dave seemed to act blind on purpose, a choice that seemed more intentional than accidental. 

Now, don’t read me wrong. I liked Dave. When he was in a non-work environment, he was the nicest, most easygoing guy in the world. When he was at work, however, well, that was another story. 

Dave could turn into the stereotypical screaming foreman with the flip of the switch, bulging eyes and neck veins included. I could relate to being hyperactive at work as I was full of restless energy, but Dave took that characteristic to a level of its own. He seemed to get more worked up towards the end of the workweek when there were more projects to get done.

On Saturday specifically, he had this philosophy to get as much work done and as quickly as possible so he and his crew could enjoy their weekend. 

I was all for that philosophy. I just wished that didn’t have to go hand-in-hand with a hyperactive spazz who spit when he got upset. As I said before, I was hyper too, but I had a mellow side. Dave needed some of that mellow in his life.

I took a step back as Dave stormed towards the concrete truck, saying some not-so-nice things on his way, and signaled the driver to get the concrete spinning. He proceeded to climb into this man-made cave and straddle this big hose between his legs without wearing the required protective gear. My job that day was to prevent this pipe from cracking. Since the pipe was lying on the sand, it was moving around too much, which was causing a problem for the dam above. That’s why we were laying concrete down—so the pipe wouldn’t move.

As Dave continued making a show of doing the work that I was supposed to be doing, I noticed the other workers were halting their projects to watch. They were more timid than I was when it came to confrontation as they watched Dave from afar. Our foreman’s mood swings tended to make the other men take a step back in hopes of avoiding being Dave’s next target.

Me being me, I couldn’t help but go toe to toe with Dave. It’s not like I look for trouble or anything; it’s just that I have this habit of saying what’s on my mind.

"I don’t know why you’re