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Authors: Nicole Baart

Sleeping in Eden

BOOK: Sleeping in Eden
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PRAISE FOR

Far from Here

“This gorgeously composed novel is a candid and uncompromising meditation on the marriage of a young pilot and his flight-fearing wife, their personal failings, and finding the grace to move beyond unthinkable tragedy . . . . Pulsing with passion and saturated with lush language, Baart's [
Far from Here
] will leave an indelible mark.”

—
Publishers Weekly,
starred review


Far from Here,
Nicole Baart's tale of the certainties of absolute fear and the uncertainty of love, whirls the reader up and never lets go.”

—Jacquelyn Mitchard,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Deep End of the Ocean
and
Second Nature: A Love Story

“Nicole Baart is a writer of immense strength. Her lush, beautiful prose, her finely drawn characters, and especially her quirky women, all made
Far from Here
a book I couldn't put down.”

—Sandra Dallas,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Prayers for Sale
and
The Bride's House


Far from Here
was a rare journey to a place that left me healed and renewed by the end of this beautiful, moving novel. A tribute to love in all its forms—between a man and a wife, between sisters, and among mothers and daughters—my heart ached while I read
Far from Here,
but it ached more when I was done and there were no more pages to turn.”

—Nicolle Wallace,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Eighteen Acres

“Nicole Baart is a huge talent who has both a big voice and something meaningful to say with it.
Far from Here
is a gorgeous book about resilient people living in a broken world, finding ways to restore hope and even beauty in the pieces.”

—Joshilyn Jackson, author of
Gods in Alabama
and
A Grown-Up Kind of Pretty

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To the ones I lost
and the ones I hold.

May I never be caught
sleeping in Eden.

1

LUCAS

O
n the day the leaves began to fall, Jim Sparks hung himself from a rafter in his condemned barn. The sun was warm but the air was cool; a prophecy of winter in the breeze that shook the first honey-colored leaves from branches that would soon stand naked, all angles and lines, snow-draped modern art adorning the prairies.

Morning dawned sudden and crisp, robed in fog that crowned the fields with ribbons of silver and left geometric patterns of shimmering frost reflecting light like diamonds. But by the time the clock passed twelve, the afternoon had melted into a reluctant autumn warmth. It was the sort of day when you could not help but turn your face toward the sun; a day that could not be duplicated in a year of days.

And he killed himself.

The wind sighed audibly through the barn when Lucas Hudson stepped out of his tiny import, a rusty blue thing that had become a sort of inside joke in a town staunchly dedicated to everything domestic. Gravel crunched beneath his tattered sneakers, and he shielded his eyes with strong, surgeon's hands as he surveyed the scene before him.

Jim's property was a graveyard of gutted engines and frozen pizza boxes that seemed incapable of finding their way into the dented, metallic garbage can that lay half buried in the weeds beside his front step. The disarray stretched across five acres
of unkempt lawn and sagging buildings bordered by an aging farmhouse against the eastern fence, and a grayish barn with peeling paint along a northwest line of poplars.

Lucas stood on the driveway and looked past it all. He leaned into the slight breeze, absorbing warmth through his sweatshirt, and watched the golden cornfields dance.

Everyone hated Jim Sparks, and the phone call that had summoned Lucas didn't inspire the quintessential emotions of pity, regret, or even shock. Instead, he felt numb. Cold. It wasn't surprising that the man who seemed to resent every aspect of his existence in this small town had finally done what many had always expected him to do. Truth be told, most people thought he'd simply leave rather than take the more permanent way out. But suicide accomplished the deed: Jim would never face another insidious rumor.

“Lucas!”

The sound of his name made Lucas start, but of course it was Alex. His friend had summoned him here, had torn him away from Jenna when they had actually been having a conversation—words exchanged that meant something. But it was impossible to say no to Alex Kennedy. He was a force of nature, a grown man with the soul of a child. It didn't hurt that he was also the police chief, even if the title seemed a bit presumptuous for a village as small and sleepy as Blackhawk, Iowa. Lucas had often thought the decorous, hardworking citizens of his hometown would likely do just fine regulating themselves.

Alex loped across the sloping lawn, his usually grinning mouth set in a serious half smile to convey the gravity, the tragedy of the situation.

“Hey.” Lucas shortened the distance between them in a few long strides. He tried to return Alex's wan smile, but it came out lopsided and faded the moment his mouth managed to take shape. Lucas knew he looked like he had tangled with shadows in some rough back alley, and he ran his hands through his thick, dark hair before stuffing them in the pockets of his gray hoodie.

“Thanks for coming,” Alex said, lifting an eyebrow but apparently choosing to ignore Lucas's uncharacteristic dishevelment. He offered his own brand of sympathy in a quick thump to the back. “I know this is usually your only day off.”

“And I don't usually act as coroner,” Lucas reminded him. But Alex didn't bother to respond.

They walked in silence to the barn, a leaning affair with broken windows that snarled at the world through shards of glass clinging fanglike to the rotten frames. The midafternoon sunlight poured through wide cracks between each and every board and sprinkled dust across the shaded east-facing entrance. Though Alex called it a barn, the building in question had once been a stable, and the wide, high doors seemed to frame the past. Lucas could almost imagine the carriages, buggies, and sleighs that had long ago passed through the now sagging arches. It was surprisingly charming in its age and fragility. Never mind the squad cars, the haphazard yellow tape, the sounds of people talking gravely within.

“Why didn't you call Elliot?” Lucas finally asked, pausing in the shadow of the haymow.

“Out of town. Vacation.”

“So who's taking care of the morgue?”

“Someone croaks, we gotta send them to Fairfield,” Alex explained.

Lucas sighed. “You know, there are other doctors in town.”

“I think the Townsend brothers got their licenses in Mexico.”

Lucas's laugh was a soft snort, but at least he laughed. “Oh, you owe me big, Kennedy. This is hardly in my job description.”

“Yeah, well, you know.” Alex lifted the heavy latch and pushed the door open, stooping to secure it with a rock the size of a small melon. The action didn't necessarily shed light into the barn.

Lucas stepped tentatively into the shadow of the old building and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dusty, filtered light. The two town cops called to the scene were talking in hushed tones out of Lucas's range of vision, but a quick scan
of the inside of the slanted barn revealed as much clutter as could be expected from Jim Sparks. There was junk everywhere—piles of old firewood, small farm machinery, moldy hay bales.

And yet, a few reminders of the former glory of the Timmer Ranch clung to the landscape like artifacts from some era beyond memory. There was a brass plate with the name
Philadelphia
etched in sweeping strokes above a corner stall. And two long, curved bale hooks, covered in rust that could be mistaken for ancient blood in the dying light. Reaching to touch a lone harness that was draped from a nail near the door, Lucas caught a whiff of leather. And then he made out a clearing. Between an old tractor and the first animal stall, a body hung limp and motionless only two feet off the ground.

Lucas maneuvered around an abandoned axle and surveyed the scene before him. Jim had knotted a pretty handy noose; the spine traveled across the front of his throat and tossed his head back at a grotesque angle. His face was a cruel shade of bluish purple, and his tongue lolled thick and offensive out of blood-speckled lips. A rickety wooden chair lay upturned and off to one side of the body that swung almost imperceptibly like a broken, bloated pendulum. And the beam itself, the rafter that held Jim Sparks in death, ran bent but sturdy from one end of the barn to the other, cutting a crooked line that seemed to say, “At least I can do this.” Lucas suddenly felt tired. He was expecting horror of nightmarish proportions. What he got was something altogether pathetic and horribly, wretchedly sad.

BOOK: Sleeping in Eden
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