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Arlana bowed her head, a new observance everyone adhered to, with the exception of her hillbilly parents. Ashamed, she fixated on the retreating racket of her father's cowboy boots stomping in the hushed sanctuary. He wore them tucked beneath a pair of pressed battleship-grey dress pants he had owned since she could remember. A "Sunday Best" sweater completed his ensemble.
Mark stood out like a sore thumb amongst all the men in suits, yet he didn't seem to notice. Freshly showered and hair combed, he was prepared to meet with God, assured that God only cared about the heart, not the exterior. That may have been true in Prophet Samuel's day but things had changed over the centuries and clearly, Mark hadn't received the memo.
Some might say that there isn't much contrast between Baptists and Presbyterians, but Arlana had discovered first hand that the Irish embraced their own, looking down their imperious noses at those who did not bear their surnames or Irish heritage, Christian or not - at least the Irish that attended her latest church. Bloodlines were more valuable than faith and the name Gallen didn't make the cut.
Peering from beneath the broad-brimmed straw hat that accentuated her ankle-length dress, Arlana lingered in feigned pious prayer until Keiran tucked his Bible under his arm and made a beeline dive for the nearest exit. Keiran was a man as predictable as the seasons, and she knew precisely where to locate him. Fixating on the back of his suit she pursued, all but stalking him, hesitating only to murmur with a smile, "How are you?" Her words delicately accented with an Irish lilt she'd perfected over the past four years in a struggle to be accepted.
"Let's go!"
Arlana glanced up at her father who had unexpectedly appeared at her side, stopping briefly to extend a calloused hand to the stout Irishman before her.
Ian sniffed before taking the work-worn hand in his.
How long has it been since the potato famine? Arlana's thoughts grew bitter as she observed the exchange, Any misery they once had has been left in the Motherland. This lot is too big for their britches!
Lost in thought, Arlana behaved as though she hadn't heard her father, "I'll be in the van."
Arlana would be Irish too if she could only catch up with Kieran. He alone was her only hope in not only erasing the Gallen name along with procuring an escape from her reality.
Nothing had improved over the years, she was just as desperate for a man - any man really, to sweep her off her feet and offer her a life where she could finally live, "Happily ever after."
There was only one obstacle, Keiran was determined to evade her, thwarting her plans at snagging a husband.
Cornering him in their church bookstore, she knew he was too committed to his volunteer post to leave until they locked up the church. Arlana took advantage and casually meandered along the bookshelves, heart hammering. Even if Keiran spoke to her, she wouldn't be able to formulate an answer. Hillbilly blood runs deep, but she could dream he'd see past her awkwardness, find her charming and fairy-tale like, sweep her off her feet.
If she closed her eyes she could detect an indistinct trace of cologne. The scent could have belonged to any of the ageing men who were perusing the books in the tiny room, yet certain it was her man, Arlana's heart hammered in her ears.
"Let's go!" Mark thundered, his voice bellowing, "I've been waiting for over ten minutes!"
Humiliated, Arlana hung her head, yet trailed behind her father until they stepped outside into the blinding sunlight.
What was the rush? They'd only visit with the Titusi’s family between church services. The Titusi's were country hicks who bred sons like rabbits.
Keiran will be enjoying a roast beef Sunday dinner by now, she mused, leisurely nibbling on a peanut butter and jam sandwich in the rear of the van.
There was no future for her at the Titusi's' - no prospects. The fact was, they were as much of country bumpkins as her parents - maybe more.
...Explains why Mom and Dad feel the need to visit every Sunday, Arlana thought ruefully as they turned off the highway, I'd rather die than marry into a family that is best friends with my folks.
***
ARLANA GAZED OUT THE window, scarcely listening to her sister's chatter.
"Ryan looked at me today! I know he loves me, he's just so shy."
Irish. Like Kerian, he too was a runner. It made complete sense that the two young men were friends.
Adelaide sat in silence, ignoring her sisters, twisting her fingers on her lap.
Undeterred, Jaira resumed, "Ryan was looking at me with passionate devotion when Lucy interrupted."
Passionate devotion?
"I don't need to worry. He is faithful to me. I really wish Lucy would mind her own business!"
Jaira couldn't finish her tirade. Mark had turned into a long gravel driveway finally parking beneath a weeping willow tree. A tire swing moved invitingly in the August breeze.
Adelaide instantly came to life, swinging the van door wide open before racing up the hill so fast her feet kicked her backside. Within seconds Jordan was at her side, sprinting over the hills.
Jaira blushed blood-red as Jordan's brothers swarmed their vehicle, climbing inside without being invited. Ryan was forgotten within minutes. These boys were perfect. Bright-eyed, with wind-tousled hair, but best of all, with them, the sisters didn't need to pretend they were someone they weren't.
Mark's howling laughter reached them. Distasteful as it was to accept, they belonged in "Hillbilly Land"
The Gallen family finally fit in.
Justin coaxed Jaira into climbing hay bales and as for Arlana, well, there was Solomon - the dark-haired young man with penetrating blue eyes - eyes that betrayed his mixed heritage. Yet he refused to leave his bedroom - just rude!
Arlana had honed her stalker skills over the years. Sitting on the tire swing beneath his bedroom window, she began to swing, her waist-length tresses whipping her face in the breeze. Higher and higher she soared remembering better, carefree days. Westport was now just a faraway memory. The branches creaked as she leaned back, sunlight glinting between her toes, shoes discarded.
Solomon would marry her. It was just a matter of time. She had overheard the whispers. Mrs. Titusi's loved her - she was perfect for her son. Strong, with exotic Middle Eastern good looks, yet with sky-blue eyes that could see into her soul. Arlana had to acknowledge that the interracial couple had produced gorgeous children.
Arlana turned her thoughts back to the present as she peered back up at the window. Solomon would grow to love her in time. It was always the case in novels. A gradual, developing love that would last a lifetime.
Overflowing with happiness and the promise of an incredible future, she serenaded the open window,
"With Christ in my vessel, I can smile at the storm 'till He calls me Home,
Sailing, sailing home! Sailing, sailing Home!
With Christ in my vessel, I can smile at the storm,
'Till He calls me home"
A shadow eclipsed the window a moment before it slammed shut.
Arlana sighed.
Destiny always triumphs.