A Heart Divided Read Online Free Page B

Englecliff, only with hills and more open space. In fact, my mother had flown down to approve the new place. But after she had returned to Englecliff, the owner reneged on the deal. So my father had found us a home in nearby Redford that he assured us was absolutely gorgeous.
    After a short stretch of fast-food restaurants, gas stations, and car dealerships, we turned onto a wide, tree-lined boulevard. Welcome to Redford, Tennessee. Population 18,451. My new home.
    As Dad negotiated Redford’s negligible traffic, he launched into a history lesson. Clearly he’d been studying. He seemed to know every obscure detail about the place, especially about the Civil War’s bloody Battle of Redford. We passed the municipal golf course, which Dad informed us was the old battlefield. The travelog continued as we rolled down sleepy-looking streets lined with quaint-looking shops and leafy-looking trees. Not many people were out, which was sensible considering the blast-furnace conditions. “Here we are,” Dad proclaimed as he pulledinto a brick-paved roundabout. “Redford courthouse square. There’s the monument.”
    Hard to miss. A gray granite obelisk jutted skyward fifty feet from a grassy area in the center of the roundabout. I learned later that etched into the granite were the names of 3,000 Confederates and 1,800 Union men who had died in the Battle of Redford. Flanking the monument, flying high and proud, were two flags: one American, one Confederate.
    “Pete. At the risk of stating the obvious, that’s a Confederate flag,” my mother said, obviously disgusted.
    I shaded my eyes to peer up at it. “We’re actually going to live in a town that flies the Confederate flag? It may as well be a swastika!”
    “I didn’t raise it, ladies,” my father said good-naturedly.
    “The South lost, right?” Portia asked.
    “Shhh, not so loud,” my father joked. “Some folks around here still call it the War Between the States.”
    No one laughed. He pulled off the square and onto a side street, where we rolled past more quaintness on parade. I couldn’t believe the flag didn’t bother him. Clearly, the heat had fried my liberal Democrat father’s brain.
    Ten minutes later, we were turning into the long driveway of a stately old home. “This is it!” my dad announced. He was grinning but also looking anxiously at my mother for her approval.
    It came fast. She got out of the car and took in our newhome, which was, in a picturesque Southern sort of way, beautiful. There was a long white porch with four rocking chairs and a swing that faced the road. Blue shutters framed each window; delicate lace curtains hung behind the glass. Between the lawn and the house was a lush profusion of flowers—rosebushes, pansies, and morning glories. To one side of the detached garage, there was a patch of climbing vines, heavy with ripe tomatoes.
    “Wow,” my mother declared.
    “You like it?” he asked.
    “I love it.”
    “Fourteen hundred Beauregard Lane,” my dad marveled. “Who’d ever think that Pete Pride would live on Beauregard Lane?”
    Portia was already dancing around the porch. “It’s fantastic, Daddy! It’s like out of a movie or something.”
    I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she was right. And impressive as the exterior was, the interior was even better. Downstairs was a huge kitchen with every possible convenience, a formal living room, and dining room, and a sitting room with its original fireplace. One flight up was a pair of enormous bedrooms, each with its own bathroom.
    Portia followed me up the next flight of stairs, to my new room. It was a converted attic with sloping beams, cool from its own air conditioner. Along the far wall was a pile of boxes marked with my name. There was a cozy padded window seat under the eaves, and someone—Dad?—had already made my bed. Against my pillows rested the onemy mom had cross-stitched for me so many years ago: THE PURPOSE OF LIFE IS A LIFE OF PURPOSE.
    “Look!”