Potter Springs
Authors: Britta Coleman
POTTER SPRINGS
“With simplicity and sensitivity, Coleman brings readers into the wounded hearts of winsomely imperfect characters. This debut
novel sparkles with engrossing dialogue and deft touches of humor.”
—
Romantic Times, ****½
“[An] adept portrayal of memorable characters … a beautifully told tale. A truly American slice-of-slice story.”
—
Tulsa World
“Britta Coleman’s fresh, sparkling new voice waltzes off the pages of her Texas story.”
—Jodi Thomas,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Widows of Wichita County
“Coleman shows an innate ability to craft a compact story and build flawed but sweet characters. Coleman is indeed a promising
new talent.”
—
Denton Record-Chronicle
“[A] compelling story [that] makes us appreciate those we love.”
—
San Angelo Standard-Times
“A … heartwarming tale, with a welcome seasoning of humor.”
—
Fort Worth Business Press more
…
“Britta Coleman’s story of love and loss, mistakes and forgiveness, resonates with true-to-life characters and the quirkiness
of small-town life. POTTER SPRINGS is a touching and powerful debut.”
—Jennifer Archer, author of
Sandwiched
and
The Me I Used to Be
“Britta Coleman’s charming story illustrates how love prevails despite our flaws and where we have been.”
—Kimberly Willis Holt, National Book Award-winning author of
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
“The kind of story that does everything right, filled with vivid characters and images that leap off the page. Britta Coleman’s
writing sparkles with faith, hope, love, and the healing power of friendship. POTTER SPRINGS will stay with you long after
you turn the last page.”
—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of
Tending Roses
“The writing is lyrical and the characters as real as the neighbors next door. I thoroughly enjoyed this story.”
—Sharon Baldacci, author of A
Sundog Moment
“Amanda and Mark are utterly engaging, two flawed but loving people struggling to hang on to their faith and each other in
a world filled with everyday troubles and small but shining triumphs. POTTER SPRINGS is a standout, rich with heart and muscle,
spirit and imagination.”
—Marsha Moyer, author of
The Second Coming of Lucy Hatch
and
The Last of the Honky-tonk Angels
Copyright © 2005 by Britta Coleman
Reading Group Guide copyright © 2006 by Hachette Book Group USA
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First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-1-59995-324-3
Contents
CHAPTER 12: the price is right
CHAPTER 14: getting to know you
CHAPTER 20: minutes on the hour
CHAPTER 32: the craziest notion
reading group guide DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
For Kern
M
irages glistened on the steaming pavement of South Texas as Mark Reynolds gripped the steering wheel, fighting to keep his
eyes from glazing over. The tires made a rhythmic
thump, thump, thump,
and mile signs waved like familiar friends.
Closer, they told him. You’re getting closer.
Mr. Chesters’ cries from the backseat subsided, sleep finally conquering the cat’s frenzy.
Mark stretched his neck to either side, thankful for the silence. It had been a long ride, and they still had a ways to go.
Zooming by lonely pumpkin stands and a few skinny dogs, he turned up the radio and let his foot fall heavier on the pedal.Time
and distance passed while good old boys discussed farm subsidies and the price of oil.
A light flashed in his rearview mirror, bright as the sun on someone’s chrome, but a quick glance told him otherwise.
The cops.
As he pulled over to the shoulder, the tires shot pebbles like angry hail. He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Ungodly November heat coated his skin with a fine sheen. A scratch drew a line across his cheek and his left eye ballooned
in shades of black and blue.
The patrolman’s boots crunched on the loose asphalt.
Mark rolled down the window and his palm slipped on the handle. “Yes? What’s the problem?” He hadn’t been pulled over since
college, nearly a decade ago.
“See your license and insurance, sir.” The policeman pulled out a notebook.
“Absolutely. Sorry about that.” Mark dug in the glove compartment. Thank God he’d remembered the paperwork. He’d need it for
the border crossing. “Was I speeding?”
Officer Martinez, according to the engraved bar, tipped his tan Stetson in answer. “Where you headed?”
“South.”
“Not much south of here except Mexico,” Martinez said. “Big storm headed that way. You crossing over?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“Looking for someone.” Mark stared straight ahead.
“Who’s that?”
Fear and frustration burned in his throat as he uttered the truth. “My wife.”
The officer’s mouth twitched. “Stay put, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
More gravel crunched, and Martinez left Mark to himself.
Inside the car, a fly buzzed against the windshield. It made circles and struck the glass, relentless in its efforts to escape.
Just an inch from freedom. Cupping his hand, Mark ushered the insect to the window, where it looped away, stunned and sluggish.
He wondered how it ever lasted through summer without getting squashed.
Martinez returned and passed the credentials through the window. “Potter Springs? That’s the Panhandle, isn’t it? You’re a
far way from home.”
Mark nodded, his image a warped jester in Martinez’s mirrored lenses.
“What do you do up there in Potter?”
“Minister.”
Martinez removed the shades and squinted. Taking in Mark’s muscular build, beat-up face and wrinkled clothes. A neon logo
painted his T-shirt-SUN
YOUR
BUNS!-over a photo of four women in thong bathing suits. “You don’t look like any preacher I’ve ever seen.”
Mark didn’t argue. The car idled in the heat.
“Well.” Martinez thumped the metal roof. “I’ll let you go with a warning this time. Do me a favor and slow it down.”
“I plan to.” He adjusted his seat belt. “Thanks.”
“For what it’s worth”-Martinez took a step back, holding Mark’s gaze-“I hope you find her.”
Merging into traffic, the officer’s black-and-white faded into the distance.
I hope you find her.
The blessing stirred Mark’s memories. To the time before the losing began. Before the whirlwind and the changes and the wide,
open spaces.
Months Earlier
M
ark watched the Houston traffic snake around his building like a lazy, lethal predator. Smog drifted outside the wall-to-wall
window, the glass impenetrable and sterile.
Turning to the velvet box on his desk, he opened the lid and a marquise diamond flashed at him. The gem was small, but flawless.
He’d paid high dollar to make sure no internal flaws, no yellowish hue, marked the stone.
Amanda deserved at least that much.
A discreet knock sounded at the door. Mark palmed the jewel box just as James Montclair poked his salt-and-pepper head inside
the office.
“Show time,” James announced. “Ready, buddy?”
“Sure thing.” Mark gathered his jacket and slid the treasure into an inside pocket, tapping it once for security.
Downstairs, he greeted a thousand faces. Perfumes and colognes and mothballs stained the air. The fine whir of silk and wool
defined movements. Sit, rise, stand and sing.
Lights dimmed and the pews filled like a Broadway theater, anticipation broken by muffled coughs. Ten-thousand-dollar screens
lowered to highlight PowerPoint images and cue the congregants to the next hymnal page.
Mark approached the stage with grace. He strode toward the podium and adjusted his tie microphone. “Good morning, everyone.
Welcome. I’m Mark Reynolds, associate pastor here at Pleasant Valley Baptist Church and your host for today’s services.”
Morning worship ran smoothly, a well-oiled machine orchestrated to perfection. James Montclair, senior pastor, spoke from
the pulpit like a middle-aged Billy Graham. Poised, beautiful even. His sermon on grace, punctuated with a guest testimonial
from a former drug addict, jerked plenty of tears.
“Well done,” attendees praised afterward, shaking James’s hand as they withdrew in elegant fashion.
“Excellent devotion this morning,” one matron complimented Mark. “You’ll be taking over before long, I imagine.”
“That’s the plan.” James chucked Mark on the shoulder. “I’ll have to retire someday. We’ve got a fine runner-up here.”
The praise flushed Mark’s cheeks and made him feel even taller. To be James’s successor, to helm this kind of megachurch,
the biggest and fastest growing in Houston, had been his heart’s desire since the day he entered seminary.
To actually work with a man like James Montclair, multipublished and nationally known, had been more than he could have hoped
for.
When the last convert from the altar call slipped away, still sniffling into wadded tissues, James and Mark headed for the
elevator to the executive-level offices.
“I meant that, you know,” James said. “About you taking over. With the last book doing so well, they’ve mentioned more speaking
engagements. Makes it tough to be here Sundays.”
Emotion clogged Mark’s vocal cords. “When?”
“It’s all conjecture right now, and we’re still a couple years out. But I thought I’d give you a heads-up. Course the board
will have to approve.”
“Of course,” Mark said.
“But between you and me”-James grinned-“you’re the man. Providing that you want it.”
“You know I do.”
“All right, then.” The elevator shot upward, lit numbers dinging a faint rhythm. Muzak piped in through the speakers, instrumentals
of the latest Christian pop.