Living in the small, southern town of Plumville is effortless, seamless, and safe . . . if you follow the rules. You're given them from birth, and anything that could possibly make you break them is removed from your life--even if it's your best friend. Such is the case for Benjamin Drummond and Coralee Simmons, two best friends separated during childhood because Benjamin is white, Coralee is black, and relationships between the two races are unspoken in its taboo. However, fifteen years later during the turbulent 1960s, Benjamin and Coralee are reunited, and despite their upbringing, neither is able to deny what they had in their innocent youth, nor suppress the desire to rekindle it--maybe even into something more.
The reunion forces the pair and those around them to examine the consequences of following the status quo versus following their hearts. Is friendship too high a price to pay to be Plumville? Is love? Will Benjamin and Coralee become who Plumville raised them to be, or who they were born to be?
Amid the chaos Coralee stumbled upon the sidewalk, not realizing it was
even there. Suddenly arms wrapped around her and she screamed, struggling
once more. A hand clamped around her mouth, and she fought for breath; she
thought he was choking her again. Instead, he lifted her, cradling her like a
baby, and she wrapped her arms around the person instinctively. Coralee
gasped when she saw Benjamin’s tight jaw, and hid her face in the crook of his
neck.
He ran with her, his football training coming in handy, to a faraway alcove
of trees behind the chapel and library. He set her down with her back against a
tree, his front pressing her against it. His arms locked her in, and he kept looking
behind him, as if searching for danger. Coralee tried to relax against the
tree, but she couldn’t stop trembling. Blood and adrenaline surged through her
and she took deep breaths as if oxygen would run out in the next five minutes.
She felt her heartbeat in her wrists, temple, stomach, chest, the backs of her
knees—everywhere—as the heart worked overtime.
Thunder bounced off the roofs and trees, mixing with the yelling and fighting
from the melee. Lightning flashed too brightly to be unconcerned about it,
and Coralee jumped, a sob escaping her. Benjamin’s large, calloused hand
touched her cheek, catching the silent tears she shed. Coralee jerked, glancing
at his eyes that were still full of the righteous anger and severity from before.
What if Benjamin was the attacker from earlier?
She gasped again, pushing against the tree as if forcing it to envelope her.
She hadn’t recognized her first attacker’s voice, her adrenaline-enhanced senses
distorting it, but Coralee couldn’t rule Benjamin out, no matter how much she
wanted to do so.
Trust him?
His hands moved from her face to her body and Coralee froze, feeling the
backs of his fingers ghost across her stomach and the bottom of her breasts as
he worked her buttons. Her bottom lip slid between her teeth and she closed
her eyes tight. Suddenly he stopped touching her, but she didn’t relax, slowly
opening her eyes to him. He was looking at her intently, his expression blank
and hands fisted in his pockets. Coralee relaxed and looked down at herself.
He had righted her clothes, even buttoning the formerly-opened cardigan
she wore on top of her blouse. Rain began falling, flourished by the thunder
and lightning, and she hugged herself. Benjamin opened his jacket in silent
invitation.
Trust him.
Experience taught her not to, conditioned by her father and grandmother
and everyone else who told her white people couldn’t be trusted. Yet here this
white boy was, protecting her from molesters and now the elements, only asking
for her trust in return.
Did these small acts of chivalry deserve it?
They weren’t children anymore; they couldn’t hide in the bubble of innocence,
of make-believe. The dragons were real, disguised as rednecks in pickup
trucks who ran black people off the road for the fun of it. The wicked witches
and warlocks were real, disguised as fellow students, professors, and police
officers. The only person who hadn’t been real was her prince, and yet … it
seemed he was trying to be, even if he didn’t know how to go about it so well.
She peered at him, hugging herself tighter. “Benny?”
The name was small, barely discernable from the pelting rain and wind rustling
through the leaves. A flash of lightning illuminated behind him, casting
shadows along his face. His blue eyes totally focused on her, and he stepped
closer, opening his jacket wider.
“Ceelee, please.”
It was the please that uprooted her feet and propelled her into his arms. She
hugged his middle, and breathed in his scent mixed with the rain and whatever
soap he used earlier, and that cinnamon smell he always had, even when he was
younger. Coralee was warm, partly from the jacket, but mostly from him. This
was a familiar embrace—the embrace he would give her when he used to protect
her from Luther Jr., or Tommy Birch … a spider.
