All her life, Esther Hopkins has been told she has a mighty fine voice.
Still, she can't believe her luck when just days after moving to town, she's invited to sing a solo at the 1923 Independence Day picnic.
But the group sponsoring the picnic is not the benevolent fraternal order they claim to be. Worse, they've recruited her father, the town's freshly ordained Baptist minister, to become their chaplain.
When they target the immigrant family of her new best friend, Esther must risk her father's anger, the KKK's revenge, and her family's safety to follow her conscience, salvage her friendship, and find the strength to speak truth to power even if it costs all she holds dear.
Excerpt
Chapter 11
I marched with such purpose toward the feed store that even when the sweet scent of pink blossoms beckoned from the park, I did not stop to dawdle and daydream. Let some other girl stand on that stage and sing.
If I hadn’t been so focused on what I was going to say to Anne-Marie, I’d have noticed it a block away. Big sloppy red words had been inserted in Lombardi’s window sign. Lombardi’s Foreign Feed. Buy American! Dribbles of dried red paint dripped down the letters like a bloody nose.
How could someone do such a thing! I ran to the door. A cross had been scratched deeply in its wood. The knob wouldn’t turn. Lombardi’s Feed was locked. I knocked and knocked but no one answered. “Anne-Marie!” I shouted toward the upper story window “Are you in there?”
No one responded, but I could see a shadow stir near the upstairs curtain. I pounded on the door. “Mr. Lombardi! Anne-Marie! I need to talk to you.” I ran back to the front window, pressing my face against the glass beside the hateful scrawling. Inside Mr. Lombardi pushed aside the maroon curtains. When he peeked around the door he held his hand out, barring me from entering.
“What happened? Are you okay?” I demanded.
“A prank,” he said. “A foolish prank. No one is harmed.” But his eyes, wary and tense, scanned the town square behind me as he spoke.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lombardi. I’ll help you clean it,” I offered.
He waved his hand. “No, child. Thank you, but no.”
“Can I see Anne-Marie, please? I need to tell her something.”
He shook his head. “That is unwise. I will tell her you asked for her.” He withdrew his head to close the door.
I wedged my hand into the door frame. “Wait! Please, who did this?”
The old man smiled forlornly and took my hand in his, pushing it gently back. “Go now. Be safe.”
I backed away as he closed the door. He hadn’t answered my question, but if I was honest with myself, I already knew the answer.
A strange feeling inched down my spine as I left. A prickle at the nape of my neck crawling down my shoulder blades. Eyes watching up and down the street. Eyes on me. The haberdasher next door arranging his hat sign watched as I walked by. The druggist a few doors down swept the street in front of his pharmacy, eyes tracking me. Mr. Holland, leaned against the Chief, nodding as I passed, but piercing me with his stare. I fought back the urge to run. Placed one foot in front of the other until I reached the safety of our porch.
Rebecca Langston-George
