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  Praise for the Nationally Bestselling Authors of

  Finding Amos

  “J. D. Mason’s stark portrayals of her characters and their innermost thoughts bring the readers right into the emotional center of the story. Those who enjoy Carl Weber and Eric Jerome Dickey will add Mason to their list of favorites.”

  —Booklist

  “J. D. Mason will take your breath away.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “ReShonda Tate Billingsley’s engaging voice will keep readers turning the pages and savoring each scandalous revelation.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Billingsley infuses her text with just the right dose of humor to balance the novel’s serious events.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Bernice L. McFadden has a wonderful ear for dialogue, and her entertaining prose equally accommodates humor and pathos.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “Truly a welcomed voice in the literary world.”

  —Terry McMillan

  “Writing in a mystical style . . . McFadden is an imaginative storyteller who mesmerizes readers with her words.”

  —Library Journal

  To Junior. The first man I ever loved.—JDM

  To Bruce. I’ll always be a daddy’s girl.—RTB

  For my daddy.—BLM

  Amos

  He was barreling down the dirty road leading toward Tupelo, Mississippi, in his copper-brown 1969 Cadillac Eldorado. Amos was returning for the first time since he’d walked down the same road twelve years ago, determined to leave his childhood home forever. Yet he remembered every curve, every crook in that old road.

  He’d promised never to set foot in that small country town again. Amos had been seventeen then, with seventy-eight dollars in his pockets that he’d saved from too many summers of picking cotton. He swore he would not grow old in a place like this, the way his daddy was doing. And he sure as hell wasn’t dying down here.

  When he left, he’d headed north. Amos hopped on a bus to Detroit and never looked back. The only reason he was returning now was to show his old man that he’d been wrong about his son. Amos tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, listening to the sound of his own voice playing through the speakers. He bobbed his head and sang along to lyrics he’d written. It was his first single release, and he didn’t doubt that there would be many more to come.

  “You made a fool outta me, baby!” he sang. “But I’ll gladly be the fool ova you!”

  All he’d ever wanted to do was to sing and make music. He was born with a melody in his head so strong that it dared him to chase after it all the way to Motown.

  His daddy never believed he could do it. He said Amos should stay on the farm like all the other boys were doing.

  “Ya play that piano and sang to have a good time, boy. Good-time party, hoopin’ and hollerin’ like you ain’t got nothing betta to do. But a real man works. He goes out into the world and puts in his time.”

  Amos used to sit on the top step of the porch at his daddy’s feet. A real man. His daddy used to throw those words around for Amos’s benefit. A real man works. A real man’s hands got calluses. A real man’s got a crooked back from being bent over all the damn time workin’ in them fields. Nah. As often as he had to listen to his daddy telling him that, he never bought into it. Real men were cool. They sat on top of barstools, with guitars straddling their knees, singing out into audiences filled with fine women made up pretty and smelling nice, nodding their heads and swaying their round hips to the sounds of soulful music.

  Amos was tired of listening to his daddy complain about what kind of man he should be. And that afternoon, sitting on those steps, he knew that the next words to come out of his mouth would be the words to seal his fate—and finally set him free—or get him killed.

  “What about Bo Carter, Robert Johnson, ‘Papa Charlie’ McCoy, Otis Redding, Chuck Berry, Little Richard?”

  His daddy cut his eyes at him. “What ’bout ’em?”

  “They make music. Music you listen to all the time. You mean to tell me that you don’t think what they do is work? You mean to say that they ain’t real men?”

  Southern boys knew better than ever to challenge their daddies. Amos knew better, too, but more than that, he knew what he wanted and what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to become the man his daddy was.

  His daddy’s gaze sliced right through him. “You ain’t Bo Carter. You ain’t Robert Johnson or Otis Redding.”

  “But I could be,” Amos protested, standing up to his old man in a way that he had never had the courage to before. “You don’t know.”

  His daddy leaned forward and balanced his elbows on his knees. “Yo momma done filled yo head with nonsense, son. Ain’t nothin’ special ’bout you or what you wanna do. All I know is what I know. You stay here, you work ’long side me out there.” He pointed to the fields across the dirt road.

  Amos swallowed and felt his heart racing in his chest. “I ain’t workin’ myself to death in them fields, Daddy.”

  His father slowly stood up and adjusted his pants. Amos thought for sure his old man was getting ready to take off his belt and beat the mess out of him, but the old man just huffed.

  “I ’spect you to be gone by mornin’ ” was the last thing he said to Amos before going back inside the house.

  When his momma passed away, Amos hadn’t even come back for the funeral. But he was going home now to show that old man that Amos’s so-called foolish notions had gotten him a new Cadillac and a record deal with Atlantic Records. His first single was hot like fire, baby!

  Wide-open, lush green fields on either side of that road stretched along for about forever. They sure had more trees in Tupelo than they did in Detroit. Amos pushed his foot down hard on the gas.

  “Show me whatchu workin’ with, baby!” he shouted, enthralled by the purr of the engine.

  “Slow down ’fore you run us off this road,” the pretty woman sitting next to him said. She’d been staring out of her window the whole time he’d been driving. Amos wanted so badly to see her face, but she never turned away from the window. She looked good, though. He could tell just by the way she was built—thick, shapely, wearing that pretty dress she always wore, the one with the flowers and the buttons that went all the way down the front. She’d crossed one luscious thigh over the other one, and that dress split nearly up to her hips.

  “Why don’t you lean over here and give me some sugah?” he coaxed.

  She just shook her head.

  Wait until his daddy saw this fine thing right here! He didn’t think Amos would amount to nothing. He’d been wrong. And Amos was about to show him how wrong he was.

  He turned his head to one side and saw the vast delta spread out like a blanket, but when he turned his head back, the pretty woman sitting next to him was gone. That was strange. How could she be gone? Ahead of him, through the windshield, he saw tall buildings mixing in with the trees. They didn’t have buildings like that in the country. The sound of his music coming from the radio started to fade and mix over to another man’s voice.

  “In an effort to win over evangelical voters, GOP candidate Mitt Romney emphasized in a commencement speech to universit
y graduates his opposition to President Obama’s support of gay marriage, by stating that he believes the sanctity of marriage should be between . . .”

  Something wasn’t right. The world was shifting by the second. Amos watched with growing bafflement as the narrow road leading him home transformed like magic in front of his eyes. That old potholed road turned into a ribbon of black asphalt. He wasn’t alone, no sir. Traffic was coming straight at him, horns honking. “Watch out, old man!”

  Amos glanced up at his rearview mirror and was startled by the reflection of the person staring back at him. It was his face, but not the face he had expected to see. Gray hair sprinkled his head and beard. He glanced at his hands, old man hands, gripping the steering wheel. This wasn’t his prized Cadillac. He was driving the old beater he’d bought secondhand from his old bass guitarist.

  Panic took over where confusion left off, and Amos swerved at the last moment to avoid hitting an oncoming SUV. He realized he was driving the wrong way down a one-way street and careened crazily onto the sidewalk and into a streetlight, then felt a massive jolt amid the crashing metal and splintering glass . . . and then nothing.

  Cass

  Fall 2011

  We found your name and number written on the back of a drugstore receipt in his wallet,” the nurse explained. Her nameplate read IRIS, and she’d been the one Cass had spoken to over the phone.

  Cass Edwards followed the nurse down the long hospital corridor lined with rooms. She’d been catering a fiftieth wedding anniversary party when she got the call that her “father” had been involved in a car accident. She’d left in the middle of the job to come here.

  “He was driving the wrong way down a one-way street. The police said he swerved to avoid a collision with another vehicle and crashed into a pole. He has a severe concussion, a broken hip, some swelling around his spinal cord, and a fractured ankle. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “The doctor said he had something wrong with his heart and that his liver was bad?” Cass probed, concerned.

  “He has some blockage in one of the arteries,” Iris said solemnly, stopping in the hallway. “We’re monitoring him closely, and the doctor believes he’ll have to have surgery eventually.” She almost seemed to be apologizing for Amos’s condition. “There’s evidence that your father’s already had several heart attacks, Ms. Edwards. Were you aware of that?”

  “He’s not my father,” Cass clarified.

  The nurse was caught off guard. “I’m sorry. I just assumed—”

  “He’s my stepfather,” she said, letting Iris off the hook.

  The nurse scratched her head, looking puzzled. “You’re the only next of kin we could locate,” she explained, pushing open the door to Amos’s room.

  On most days, the image she had of Amos had been constant through the years: a dark and handsome man who had a head full of hair, gold chains around his neck, and rings on nearly every finger, sitting at the kitchen table with the yellow Formica top. But looking at him lying there, a gray-haired, broken old man with deep lines etched in his face, Cass became painfully aware of how many years had passed since she’d last laid eyes on the only father she’d ever known. Amos had come into her life when she was just a toddler, barely walking and still in diapers. She barely knew her biological father, and as far as she was concerned, especially as a kid, that didn’t matter because she had Amos. She’d had Amos Davis—until she didn’t.

  He’d been her first love. She stood there, looking down at him and thinking that most girls probably felt that way about their father. He didn’t know it, but he’d left a void in her that seemed impossible to fill. Early in her life Cass had established a pattern of falling for the wrong guy that she still hadn’t been able to remedy. At sixteen she’d gotten pregnant by her boyfriend, Ricky, and she’d convinced herself that she was in love and that the two of them needed to spend their lives together. It wasn’t until after they were finally able to legally get married that she realized she and Ricky were not meant to be together. And a few years later, Ricky had decided that dying was better than living and took his own life. Cass was startled by the vibration of her cell phone in her purse. She pulled it out and read the text sent by her son.

  Ma— Can U spot a brotha a 20? I need some gas.

  She rolled her eyes and shoved the phone back into her purse.

  “He’s been sleeping a lot,” Iris explained. “But you’re more than welcome to stay.”

  Cass waited for the nurse to leave and then quietly pulled a chair over next to Amos’s bed. She didn’t know what surprised her most: the fact that he was carrying her phone number around in his wallet, or her reaction to seeing him again after all these years. She’d tried to keep in contact with him after he left. But Amos had made promises he either never intended to honor or just didn’t know how to keep.

  “All you got to do is say the word, Li’l Mama Cass.” Amos laughed, pulled her close, and kissed her head. “You know I’m always here for you, girl.”

  Cass had been ten when Amos left her mother. When he left her, too.

  “Men like Amos leave and don’t look back,” her mother told her once before she passed away. No matter how many years passed, her mother never shed the anger she felt toward him. “He’s a liar and a fool, Cass. You might as well believe in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy if you’re goin’ to put your faith in him. Don’t fret about Amos, Cassandra. You leave him alone, and keep it movin’. If he ain’t taught you nothin’ else, he sure as hell should’ve taught you that.”

  Cass’s mother had passed away from cancer eight years ago. Cass had no brothers or sisters, and at the sight of Amos now, lying there asleep, looking worn-out and frail, she realized that, besides her son, RJ, Amos was the closest thing to family she had left. She hadn’t spoken to him in years, and at times she had assumed he was dead. Leave it to Amos to live forever, she thought, smiling despite her conflicting feelings.

  She hated him. She loved him. He was a walking, talking, breathing contradiction, and it was impossible for anybody to feel mildly about him. His kisses could be as biting as his temper. His love stung almost as much as his curses. But Amos always managed to balance the opposites of himself in such a way as to leave a person second-guessing herself until she didn’t know whether she loved him or hated him. That’s what happened to Cass’s mother. She finally said, Enough!

  “I’m tired, Amos!”

  Seeing her mother cry was gut-wrenching, and it was not hard for young Cass to hate the person making her cry.

  “It ain’t me makin’ you tired, Linda,” he said, defending himself.

  He sounded as if her crying didn’t matter. But it broke Cass’s heart.

  “Of course it’s you! It’s always you! You doin’ whatever the hell you want when you want! You actin’ like you love me when you here, then forgettin’ my name as soon as you walk out that door! You want me to sit here and act like it don’t bother me! You got all these women and I’m just supposed to . . . to be cool with all that?”

  The expression on her face showed how badly she was falling apart, and he didn’t seem to care one way or another. He just tossed his things carelessly into the suitcase on the bed.

  “You out there makin’ babies with other women! Layin’ up with them, then comin’ home to me, and you got the nerve to get pissed when I say somethin’! You can’t see how wrong that is? Are you that damn selfish that you can’t see how much this hurts me?”

  That’s when he stopped and looked at her, really looked at her for the first time since he’d walked through the door. “Course I see you hurtin’, Linda,” he said, unemotionally. “I see it. I hear it. Hell! I can even taste it! That’s some bitter shit, but no matter what I do, I can’t change it. We been at this too damn long and that’s how it is, how it’s always gonna be.”

  Her mother looked so defeated and worn. “I love you,” she said, sadly. “I
thought you loved me, too.”

  He went back to packing. “There you go again.” He shook his head. Amos sounded sad himself, as if this was something he had no control over. “Love is a four-letter word. Most times, that’s all it ever amounts to.”

  Her mother had never been able to compete with his true love, Cass concluded, watching him now, all these years later. The only thing Amos really loved was music, black soul music that paid homage to broken souls and broken hearts. Back then she remembered how confused and hurt she had felt when he made her mother cry. Amos had been honest in his own way. He had loved Linda the best he could, which was nowhere near good enough. Without realizing it, that man had set a precedent for Cass. He had taught her that a man loved the best he could, leaving a woman to cry herself to sleep every night until she came to her senses and let him go.

  His eyes fluttered until they finally opened. Cass sat up in her chair, suddenly aware that she, too, had changed so much since he had last seen her. Amos blinked, focused on the ceiling of the hospital room. She stood up and hovered over him. As a little girl, she had called him Daddy.

  “Amos,” she said softly.

  He turned his head slightly and stared at her.

  That vivid sparkle he’d had in his eyes when she was growing up had grown dull. He’d been so full of fire the last time she’d seen him. Cass had been in her twenties back then. Her mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and she looked him up and asked if she could stop by. She needed to talk to him, to tell him how scared she was that she was losing her mother. She needed for him to try to step in—even after all the time that had passed—and try to take away the fear, the loneliness that she knew losing her mother would leave behind.

  “You still playing?” she asked, sitting in a chair across from Amos on his couch.

  His face lit up. “You know me, Li’l Mama Cass.” He beamed. “I’ma play till my fingers fall off and I can’t raise my arms.”