Sparks Road: Sparks Road Trilogy, #1

By Angee Costa and Ellen Briscombe

On an idyllic country road in a sleepy town lived a family with a story so intriguing, it is nearly unbelievable. What they experienced should have ripped them apart and nearly did. But they held on tight to see what true could do. In the process, they forged their love in fire.

In a story almost too shocking to be true, we meet the sisters of the Black family and experience the humor, the drama, the pain, and the perseverance of their amazing lives together. As you dive into their story, you'll become a member of the family that never lets go... no matter what.

Ellen Briscombe is a debut author of the Sparks Road trilogy. Angee Costa is a best-selling author with several books to her credit and a host of literary awards.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angee Costa
• Release date: Apr 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224431038

Book preview

Sparks Road

Copyright © 2024

By: Ellen Briscombe and Angee Costa

Editing and Cover Design by: OnePriceEdit.com

Published by: 846 Global Publishing

Cover Photography by Dunlap Photography

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or other without the prior and express written permission of the author with the exception of brief cited quotes.  Thank you for respecting the property rights of all authors.

This book is a work of fiction. However, many of the events depicted in this novel are drawn from the author’s recollection of her own life story. Some names and identifying characteristics have been changed. The author has made every effort to represent the events fairly and, when possible, has consulted others who were present. The author in no way represents any company, corporation, or brand mentioned herein. The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author.

FIRST EDITION

To reach the authors, or for information on getting permission for reprints and excerpts, contact the author at www.sparksroad.com

COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL

DEDICATION

My family is magical. Not in the way wand-wielding wizards are.  But in the way we spread love thicker than homemade jelly on Nanny’s buttermilk biscuits. My family taught me love without condition; a lesson not often learned in this world of temporary affections. Then, we took that love to the gates of hell to see if it could survive. There, we discovered it was fireproof.

Don’t cry at my story. Laugh instead. Laugh at the tragedy, the drama, the heartache, and the madness. We did. Even decades later, I still do.

This is my story. But it flows from the lives of four people — Mike, Janet, Scott and Linda — the four people who raised my sisters and me. These four people did something so remarkable, so crazy, so scandalous, it set off a chain of events that created the most wonderful family the world has ever known. 

* * * * *

A quick note:

I often joke that you need a pencil and paper to truly understand my twisted family tree.  So, from time to time, I will share a diagram that will help you visualize as you unravel our strange journey. But be warned, once you connect with our story, you become part of the family! And once you’re in, there’s no getting out!

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 – Meet Mike Black

Chapter 2 – A One-Woman Man

Chapter 3 – The Call of War

Chapter 4 – A Fatal Obsession

Chapter 5 - The Fog of War

Chapter 6 – Missed it by an Inch

Chapter 7 - Denied

Chapter 8 - No Joke

Chapter 9 - A Story Worth the Scar

Chapter 10 - A New Friend

Chapter 11 – The Magic of Linda

Chapter 12 – Great Scott

Chapter 13 – New Kid in Town

Chapter 14 - It Happened Like This

Chapter 15 - The Conversation

Chapter 16 – The Weekend

Chapter 17 – The Return

Chapter 18 - Regrets

Chapter 19 – No Shine

Chapter 20 – Every Other Weekend

Chapter 21 - Twins

Chapter 22 – Dewberries in Summer

Chapter 23 – Bucket Seats

Chapter 24 - Plunged Into Silence

Chapter 25 – Ugly & Unpopular

Chapter 26 – The Link

Chapter 27 – Take Me to Church

Chapter 28 – Grand Theft Auto

Chapter 29 – The Letter, the Grief, and the Song

Prologue

In a place that was home to the best the world has to offer, four people’s lives converged and the ordinary became extraordinary.  

Ours was a modest house flanked by untamed pasture and dotted with a parade of sycamore trees along a country path. Some roads were paved to mark the places where the modern world encroached on the purity of country life. Others remained unpaved, as old as the town itself, well-worn from hooves, paws, feet, and wheels. Our little haven of Bay City, the town that was home to that house on Sparks Road, would never appear on a list of destination locations of the world; but it was the place where heaven kissed earth — where my perfectly imperfect family was formed.

The holes I dug decades ago remain today — in one form or another.  There they sit as if protected by the gods.  The trees where my crude etchings were placed are forever preserved. There is something life-affirming in looking at the handiwork of your childhood — unchanged and familiar. 

The Rodeo Barn is still there, too — just a hop, a skip, and a jump away from where we lived just a stone’s throw down the road. It stands as a weathered witness to a time when the world was simpler, when the memories we made there echoed against the very beams and boards that held it together.

The old airport, once a hub of activity, is now dead, having languished in a slow decline over the decades, a casualty of changing times and dwindling traffic. But oh, the stories it could tell! Like the day President Bush stepped off the plane that had landed in our little country airfield. We, the wide-eyed children of Sparks Road, couldn't believe our luck to have anyone famous so close. We clamored to the backyard fence, tiny hands clutching its rough edges as we strained to catch a glimpse of the President. Our friend, Clyde Davis, always the fearless one, saw an opportunity in the towering tree nearby. With the agility of a squirrel, he scaled its branches, determined to get a view that would forever be carved in his memory. And then, as if signaled by our collective awe, the President's motorcade rolled right by us. We watched in amazement as he drove past, waving to us behind the window.

The last time I ventured back to Sparks Road with my family, I navigated the familiar paths, a camera clutched tightly in my hand appreciating it more after my long absence. Oh, how absence makes the fondness grow.

My family and I pulled into the driveway of our old house, a wave of nostalgia sweeping over me and misting my blue eyes. To our surprise, the current owner emerged. We introduced ourselves, revealing our connection to this beloved house and explaining the purpose of our visit. She welcomed us, though this day was not a joyous one for her. Anxiety etched lines on her face as she shared the burdens of her life. One son was sick, and another was bound for the hospital. It felt as though fate had guided us back to this place at precisely this moment, a cosmic alignment of her family and ours. We sprinkled our special brand of love on her in the way only my family can.

As we said goodbye, her eyes softened. I hope y’all come back again. It's so much prettier in the springtime, she said with a wistful smile.

She didn’t know what we knew. There wasn’t a bad time of year on Sparks Road when I lived here so long ago.  Every season was as enchanted as the other.

Summer brought its carefree days, filled with laughter and adventures alongside friends, tearing through the town on our four-wheelers, leaving a trail of dust behind.

Fall ushered in a symphony of colors as leaves changed hues and fell under our feet to crunch, signaling the return to school and the comfort of coming home to something warm in the oven, its inviting aroma filling the air.

Winter was a season of traditions, of gathering around the Christmas tree, singing old carols, and eagerly unwrapping gifts adorned with pretty paper and tied up with bows.

And the Spring that the new owner longed for us to see was an image forever forged in our minds — a season of breathless wonder when the chinaberry trees burst into bloom, and the pastures awakened in vibrant shades of green.

My Sparks Road.

I was named Ellen — Ellen Louise Black. My first and middle names were given to me in homage to both my grandmothers, Claire Ellen and Elsie Louise — sage matriarchs who would give me so much more than a name. My inheritance was not comprised of their wealth, jewels, or other earthly treasures. Instead, they willed me character, honor, love, and family.

That’s the way it was back then. Family was everything, a haven of kinship, and houses as strong as our connection, tightly knit communities, overflowing with love.

For my sisters, the many children who were our neighbors, and me, the blessing of Sparks Road lay in the myriad of big family gatherings, small groups of treasured friends, and solitary places on that long stretch of road that summoned us to explore. 

And did we ever explore.

On Sparks Road, a kid could get enough elbow room to grow. Homes weren’t built on top of each other in this uncluttered countryside. Instead, wide open spaces gave you the itch to run. It was an ordinary paradise. Unspoiled... untamed... unapologetic. The best place on earth. 

Right next door resided the bedrock of our family, my grandparents, PawPaw and Nanny Arlitt. Their presence was a reassuring constant in our lives. Beyond their home an open field stretched out like a canvas of possibilities, a place to play baseball and ride four-wheelers, forging memories and a few scars that would last a lifetime. Beside it was home of the Davis' grandparents, affectionately known as Nanny and PawPaw Davis. The massive field beside the Davis’ home remains untouched, offering its silent testimony to our youthful adventures and the glories of childhood play. 

The house that followed held a special place in our hearts. Clyde and Alberta Davis were parents to the Davis boys, our closest friends and partners in mischief and adventures. Their home was our home, and the roots of friendship grew deep.

Farther along, another home-away-from home awaited us, the abode of my great-grandparents, Gaga and PawPaw. Their house, like every other on the road, was more than mere bricks and mortar; it was a sanctuary. Doors required no locks — keys were useless in our world. Every woman was another Momma, always ready to kiss any forehead, and every man another Daddy, quick to scold you for chasing the chickens.

Our lives were colored with extraordinary moments, like the day Frank Hurley, a man with a penchant for the outlandish, built a helicopter and took each kid on Sparks Road up on a thrilling ride. The sky became a playground, and our laughter echoed among the clouds — never mind the fact that his flying machine was neither government inspected nor approved.

The combination of a place to call home surrounded by those wide-open spaces made us feel strangely secure and protected, like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a rare, icy December day. No matter what was happening around me, I was engulfed in love. 

Perhaps that’s why the events of our bizarre story never shook me or any of my family members. We were bent — never broken. Traumatized, but healed in the cocoon of passionate devotion that enveloped our parade of misfits. Even in the wildest and strangest of times, I never lost that sense of constant affection.

On Sparks Road, family wasn't just about blood; it was about moments, bonds, and the knowledge that you were forever part of something bigger than yourself. Every space brightened with laughter, and the stories of our lives were written in the smiles of our loved ones or the bruises on our knees.

Everywhere I turned, from pillar to post, someone stood ready to hug me and remind me that I belonged.  And I loved them all just as ardently. Sparks Road served as the backdrop in a story of the remarkable journey of four people who became eight, who embarked upon the path of an unexpected transformation.  The short, straight stretch of road was a reminder that life is a journey that takes you from chance to providence and, often, back again.

Then...

Well, then the proverbial shit hit the fan. At first, no one knew of the chaos that was brewing behind our closed doors. In fact, we were not all that unusual to anyone looking in from the outside. But from the inside...  Well, from the inside, it was a theater of unbridled insanity where a story was unfolding so salacious, years later, the tale begs to be told.

All we lacked in good sense, we somehow made up for in love.

No matter how the craziness happened or why, I would not trade the collage of lives that surrounded me then and surrounds me now. Nor would I ask for a single thing to change even if I had the power to throw back the hands of time and wave a magic wand. I am who I am because they are who they are. I doubt any of it was a mistake; God doesn’t really make those. I know this because our truth is so much stranger than fiction, it must have been crafted that way. 

So, we just go on from day to day, year to year, holiday to holiday, living our dysfunctional perfection and laughing at the drama that created us. We hug. We laugh. We cry. We support. We scold. We encourage. We fight. We forgive. 

And we love, we love, we love.

This is how I preface my story before allowing it to unfold before you. You won’t believe all that happened. And maybe you don’t know another family so strange as mine. We will be honored to have the distinction of being the most bizarre. But our strange situation has taught us what most normal families often fail to learn: commitment to another is not a result of DNA. It isn’t the result of vows made and broken. And it doesn’t come naturally or by accident; true commitment is a choice we make every day to another heart to remain connected no matter what. Once you decide to ride or die with