COMEBACK GIRL: A NEW Daily Serial

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Home is where the hurt is.

Hello.  I’m Jane Hunnicut, aged twenty-eight.
I grew up in Accident, Alabama but I’ve lived the past few years in London, England with the man I followed there from college.  To say I’ve distanced myself from my upbringing would be a bit of an understatement.  I love being a city girl and I’ve had my share of good fortune, but lately I’ve found myself in a bit of a slump.

I’m a novelist whose first book sold gangbusters, but the second book—notsomuch.
My relationship with my fiancé was flying high… until it wasn’t.
And to top it all off, my best friend disappeared... like before.
When I was at my lowest, the phone rang and in an instant, my life changed—
my family needed me.

After escaping the suffocating situation of my childhood, I am reluctant to return, especially since I’m already late on a big deadline.  In the small town where I grew up, I never quite fit in, but now after years away, I’m really going to stick out. And I’m not ready to face the ghosts of my past.

Meanwhile, my family and friends in Alabama think my life is perfect.

I’m in dire need of a comeback.  But my plan didn’t include coming back home.

Something tells me my life is going to get worse before it gets better.

 


 

 The COMEBACK GIRL daily serial will run July 1 - December 31, 2018.  The current day's episode will display for 24 hours (approximately 4am eastern to 4am eastern).  Set a reminder on your phone, fridge, or calendar so you don't miss a single day of COMEBACK GIRL!  And please share with all your reading friends! 

(As with the previous serials, 6 monthly e-novellas will be available for readers who want to catch up, read ahead, or binge read!)

 

 


 

August 16, Thursday

SHE SAT DOWN with the novel she’d been saving for a quiet afternoon.  She had read one full paragraph before the baby monitor screeched with the sound of her nine-month-old daughter crying… and another sound—a man’s voice.  Someone was in the house.

I stopped, then pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.  Ugh!  This book did not want to be written.

I glanced around the dark, claustrophobic living room.  No wonder I couldn’t get inspired—this place was like a mausoleum.

I carried my laptop outside to the porch and sat on the swing.  The fresh air and open space were stimulating, but it was awkward to hold my laptop steady, and the sun rendered my screen almost unreadable.

I sighed and scanned for a more shady place to write, and my gaze landed on the treehouse.  I walked through the deep grass of the field to the treehouse, then contemplated how to climb and manage my computer.  Then I remembered the rope and box we’d used to bring things up.  It was still intact, and it still worked.  I climbed up, then carefully hauled my laptop up through the opening in the deck.  I looked around, nodding.  With a little cleaning, it could be a great place to work.

I pivoted to look at the view that was opposite the house’s porch, due west.  Rolling hills, heavily wooded, with a few houses here and there.  Then I squinted.  Was that Will’s house?  Mentally I mapped his location to where I stood.  And while I watched, his monster truck came into view, then disappeared around the back of the house to a garage, I assumed, since I could only see the roof.  Then Will came walking around the front of his house, carrying something—his medical bag, I assumed.  He set the bag on the porch, then walked out into his yard, sat down, and stretched out on his back, pulling his hat down over his face.

The man napped in the grass.  It spoke volumes for how much he loved his life.

Here.

In Accident, Alabama.

We were complete opposites, but I couldn’t deny the man’s appeal… and his forthright outlook on life.

You’re funny, Jane—you should consider writing comedy.

I frowned, then booted up my laptop and sat cross-legged on the deck to pick up where I’d left off.

She sat down with the novel she’d been saving for a quiet afternoon.  She had read one full paragraph before the baby monitor screeched with the sound of her nine-month-old daughter crying.  She closed the book, then used it to bang herself on the forehead.  She would never have sex again.

I pursed my mouth.  Hm.  Better. ~



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