Exclusive Excerpt of Goodbye, Lark Lovejoy
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Goodbye, Lark Lovejoy is a women’s fiction set in the Texas Hill Country. Lark a widowed, single mom, who moved back to her hometown to rebuild her life for her boys after her husband passed.
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Excerpt of Goodbye, Lark Lovejoy
Would the neighbors notice if I set fire to their hedge? Lark tightened her grip on the jogging stroller. Just one match, maybe two would do it. She held her breath and increased her pace until the border of yellow roses was behind her. A rose by any other name still smells like a funeral spray.
She drained her lungs and glanced over her shoulder at five- year-old Jamie. Despite Houston’s Jell-O-thick humidity, the boy pedaled wildly. Ding. Ding. Ding. Jamie thumbed the bell on his “big-kid bike” and slowed at a grassy space residents had nick- named “Doggy-Doo Boulevard.”
“Mom, what’s that mean?” he asked, pointing to a sign staked below a belt of loblolly pines.
“Means I’m paying too darn much in HOA dues.”
“Says that?” His forehead crinkled.
“It says, There Is No Poop Fairy.” She shook her head at the latest on the subdivision’s common grounds and Jamie’s mouth bent into a half-smile, suggesting she’d piqued his interest.
Braking, he shot her a thoughtful look, like he was rolling the words around in his mind. “A poop fairy? What’s a poop fairy?” he asked. “Like a tooth fairy?”
Lark’s gaze caught on the boy’s dark eyes—so much like his father’s. But Jamie didn’t just share his father’s name and dark features. The pair were cut from the same squeaky clean, impeccably folded fabric.
“It’s a funny way to ask people to clean up after their dogs,” she explained. Jamie seemed satisfied by that, and they continued their trek through Bayou Cove, a neighborhood shoehorned between Memorial and River Oaks where, in recent years, affluent young professionals like Lark and her late husband had breathed new life into houses built during the Nixon era. This Saturday morning was especially quiet; many families had sneaked off to Galveston and Lake LBJ for a long weekend before their children returned to school.
A cloying bitterness gripped Lark’s throat as they passed an idle T-ball tee awaiting Daddy’s return and a wooden placard boasting a family’s loyalty to the All Saints football team. Wherever she looked, stately homes brandished the trappings of domestic life like trophies.
The hollow whomp of a basketball hitting a backboard drew Jamie’s attention, and he stopped pedaling to gape at a man and his teenage son shooting baskets in their driveway. The man waved to Lark as the teen stood still to watch the basketball arc and drop into the basket.
“Did you see that?” Jamie asked, his eyes wide.
Like children staring into a toy store, Lark and Jamie watched with envy.
“Sure did.” She swallowed and turned away to peek over the top of the stroller.
Charlie was unusually quiet. His cheeks were rosy from the heat, and a hand covered his eyes as he dozed—a rarity for the toddler, who’d jettisoned naps before his third birthday. The pint-size force of nature, who had his mother’s wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes, had remained in constant motion since he screamed his way into this world.
Stillness is overrated. For three years, their house had been a hub of activity—relentless visits from friends, family, and nursing staff. A brief season of sympathy and casseroles had ended abruptly, after which point Lark felt like their home had been relocated to another planet.
People hadn’t trickled back into their lives as she had expected. Spontaneous run-ins tended to fall on the side of a distant wave, the other parties careful not to get too close in case widowhood, like a virus, was catching. Most couldn’t mask their pity with a paper sack, and if Lark heard “bless your heart” one more time, she’d scream.
‘Goodbye, Lark Lovejoy’ by Kris Clink
Would the neighbors notice if I set fire to their hedge? Lark tightened her grip on the jogging stroller. Just one match, maybe two would do it. She held her breath and increased her pace until the border of yellow roses was behind her. A rose by any other name still smells like a funeral spray.
She drained her lungs and glanced over her shoulder at five- year-old Jamie. Despite Houston’s Jell-O-thick humidity, the boy pedaled wildly. Ding. Ding. Ding. Jamie thumbed the bell on his “big-kid bike” and slowed at a grassy space residents had nick- named “Doggy-Doo Boulevard.”
“Mom, what’s that mean?” he asked, pointing to a sign staked below a belt of loblolly pines.
“Means I’m paying too darn much in HOA dues.”
“Says that?” His forehead crinkled.
“It says, There Is No Poop Fairy.” She shook her head at the latest on the subdivision’s common grounds and Jamie’s mouth bent into a half-smile, suggesting she’d piqued his interest.
Braking, he shot her a thoughtful look, like he was rolling the words around in his mind. “A poop fairy? What’s a poop fairy?” he asked. “Like a tooth fairy?”
Lark’s gaze caught on the boy’s dark eyes—so much like his father’s. But Jamie didn’t just share his father’s name and dark features. The pair were cut from the same squeaky clean, impeccably folded fabric.
“It’s a funny way to ask people to clean up after their dogs,” she explained. Jamie seemed satisfied by that, and they continued their trek through Bayou Cove, a neighborhood shoehorned between Memorial and River Oaks. This Saturday morning was especially quiet; many families had sneaked off to Galveston and Lake LBJ for a long weekend before their children returned to school.
A cloying bitterness gripped Lark’s throat as they passed an idle T-ball tee awaiting Daddy’s return and a wooden placard boasting a family’s loyalty to the All Saints football team. Wherever she looked, stately homes brandished the trappings of domestic life like trophies.
The hollow whomp of a basketball hitting a backboard drew Jamie’s attention, and he stopped pedaling to gape at a man and his teenage son shooting baskets in their driveway. The man waved to Lark as the teen stood still to watch the basketball arc and drop into the basket.
Like children staring into a toy store, Lark and Jamie watched with envy.
She swallowed and turned away to peek over the top of the stroller. Charlie was unusually quiet. His cheeks were rosy from the heat, and a hand covered his eyes as he dozed—a rarity for the toddler, who’d jettisoned naps before his third birthday. The pint-size force of nature, who had his mother’s wavy blond hair and clear blue eyes, had remained in constant motion since he screamed his way into this world.
For three years, their house had been a hub of activity—relentless visits from friends, family, and nursing staff. A brief season of sympathy and casseroles had ended abruptly.
People hadn’t trickled back into their lives. Spontaneous run-ins tended to fall on the side of a distant wave, the other parties careful not to get too close in case widowhood, like a virus, was catching. Most couldn’t mask their pity with a paper sack, and if Lark heard “bless your heart” one more time, she’d scream.
