Sonya Eaddy Cordina
author/artist
a synopsis of the black walnut tree
Sadie Caldwell is a young aspiring artist and has just rekindled a relationship with her childhood sweetheart when tragedy shaped her life. Years go by with lies and dark secrets she can only share with her sister, Celeste. Then the discovery of a decades-old letter in her daddy’s handwriting reveals hope to renew her spirit. She drives away from the family farm and braces herself for a ritzy life near Charleston - a place that holds some of the best and most painful memories of her life.
Under pretenses, Sadie gains the trust of the Avondale family and moves into their stately home on the Intracoastal Waterway as a guest artist, trying desperately to fit in with a high society lifestyle. But when she meets their beautiful and refined daughter, Kate, her daddy’s letter takes a backseat to the bruises on Kate’s arms. The well-publicized, haute wedding to the affluent real estate developer, Lance Billington, was nothing more than a façade, and now the unforgivable has Kate and her young son fleeing their multi-million-dollar Kiawah Island beach house and moving back home with her family.
Soon, unnerving coincidences between Sadie’s past and Kate’s beautiful little boy have Sadie, once again, confiding in Celeste who helps unravel an unthinkable deception and then a remarkable truth that will either shatter lives or bond sisters forever. Personal and deeply moving, THE BLACK WALNUT TREE is an engaging story of faith, family, and the South’s sweet charm.
"Regrets aren’t always mistakes. They’re stepping stones on our path in life. Sometimes we just need to play hopscotch."
chapter 11
August 1981
(EXCERPT)
If my rear-view mirror could have provided a panorama of the farm, it couldn’t possibly have held all I was leaving behind. Feeling smaller than it ever had before, I put the Pinto in gear with boxes and bags pressed up against the hatchback window and headed out the dirt lane - driving over my childhood full of stick-drawn hopscotch boxes and imaginary yellow brick roads leading to Oz.
I could faintly hear the barking of that crazy little mutt with the white hair at the tip of his tail I had named ‘Tippy’ for obvious reasons. And I’m sure that if I looked, I could see all the hogs vying for the closest spot by the fence, sticking their snouts through the small wire squares to get the best pieces of watermelon rind Daddy had to offer.
As I rounded the curve that fronted the last acre of our property, the tears balanced on the lower rims of my eyes, not quite sure if they wanted to stay or go. Forcing a few quick blinks, I made the decision for them, trying to occupy my mind with the road ahead and not behind. I rubbed my hand across the soft yarn of the afghan Momma had crocheted with the white daisy squares, the one thing I had taken without permission. I knew I would need a little piece of my momma on this adventure.
Between the rain delay and Daddy’s nostalgic needs, I realized it would take me a little longer to get to Charleston, but I took the backroads anyway. I wandered deep into the rural farmlands, blowing my horn and slowing down as I passed the small pastures dotted with brown and white cows. They were smiling at me, somehow knowing we were kindred spirits when it came to loving this quiet countryside.
I would miss it. The roads were shady and cool, and I could smell the dank, cypress knee-filled swamps. I began to let my mind wander, and the memories soon became my shadow as they mimicked my every thought.
Then I let myself cry. I cried hard for the child who never got to know its own mother. But I sobbed uncontrollably for the mother who never got to know her own child.