God Spare the Girls Read online

  Dedication

  For Trey, for everything

  Epigraph

  Look, I have two daughters who have never slept with a man. Let me bring them out to you, and you can do what you like with them. But don’t do anything to these men, for they have come under the protection of my roof.

  Genesis 19:8 (NIV)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  For that whole brutal year, Caroline Nolan had begged God to make her life interesting. He sent a plague instead: grasshoppers emerged from the earth in late June, crawling across the dry grass, multiplying too quickly, staying long past their welcome. Now they carpeted the land she’d inherited with her sister, vibrated in the sun like a mirage. As Caroline drove the ranch’s half-mile driveway, she rolled over hundreds of them. She threw the car in park, stepped out into the yellowed grass beside the gravel drive, and crushed their leggy, squirming bodies beneath her sensible heels.

  It was Saturday, the morning of her sister Abigail’s bridal shower. They had spent weeks readying the drab, cluttered ranch house for the event. Caroline climbed the creaking wooden porch steps paled by decades of harsh sun and ran a hand over the garland of pink paper flowers they’d wrapped around the railing. Abigail had wanted them draped just so, carefully inspecting every detail. Caroline bent to plug in the white twinkle lights that their mother, Ruthie, had insisted were tacky. That is, until she’d seen them suspended over the door. According to their mother, this was going to be the best shower Hope, Texas, had ever seen.

  Caroline inserted her key into the chipped brass lock; as usual, it refused to turn for her. She jiggled the key until it gave way, and pushed so hard the door banged open, almost dropping the framed engagement photos she’d been warned a half dozen times not to break. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, careful not to smear her foundation, and stepped into the frigid air-conditioned entryway. She set the stack of photos on the table.

  An hour earlier, Ruthie had pulled Caroline out of Abigail’s room while they waited for her sister to finish primping and begged her to rush over here before their guests arrived. Her mother’s bracelet was supposed to be a surprise shower gift for Abigail, Ruthie said, and no one had remembered to retrieve it from the ranch. Caroline had rolled her eyes at her mother’s urgency, but she’d sped the whole way over.

  Now she hurried past the gold-framed family photos that hung in the dim hallway, smacking her elbow on the wall as she turned. She didn’t remember the hall being this narrow, barely wide enough for her to walk down it with her elbows untucked. Lately, it felt like the whole world around her was shrinking, when she wanted it to grow with her. Caroline sucked in her stomach, shifted her too-wide hips, and squeezed between the dozens of chairs they’d arranged in semicircular rows like an amphitheater in the living room.

  She lingered at the door to her grandmother’s bedroom. It had been two years since Nannie’s death, and even though the high grass, wavering cedar trees, and cattle gates—basically everything below this huge swath of blue sky—now belonged to her and Abigail, entering Nannie’s room still felt like trespassing. Nannie had willed the ranch to the two of them, skipped over her own daughters. She’d explained the decision in her will. She said that Caroline and Abigail were the ones who loved it. The only ones who would keep it safe. But Caroline wasn’t sure she wanted the responsibility anymore.

  She told herself that all she had to do was enter the room, unlock the bedside table drawer where Nannie had always hidden her jewelry, and pray the bracelet was there. “Think how happy Abby will be,” Ruthie had said. Caroline gripped the knob, twisted, and swung open the door.

  A room left alone defines its kingdom. Dust settles across surfaces like a morning dew that never burns off. Caroline took a deep breath and stepped down into the dated plush purple carpet. She’d expected to be overwhelmed by memories of long Saturdays spent reading with Nannie in her big bed. Instead, the room felt fresh and foreign. The curtains were drawn. A gardenia candle with an ashy wick sat in front of the simple circle mirror on Nannie’s antique vanity.

  Caroline and Abigail had agreed to allow their father to offer the ranch house as lodging for his church guests, but Caroline had assumed he meant the other two bedrooms. There was no need for anyone to stay in her grandmother’s room, to leave the light on above the vanity and their summer sweater, too new to have possibly been Nannie’s, draped across the rocking chair.

  Caroline unlocked the bedside table drawer and sighed with relief when she saw the black velvet box. It was soft in her hand. She snapped it open and the gold bracelet with small inset rubies went flying, landing under the bed. “Shit,” Caroline said, and then, feeling guilty about it, “shoot.”

  She dropped to her knees and thrust her hand underneath the floral dust ruffle right as she heard her name echo through the house. Her fingers brushed against something square, plastic, wrong somehow. She pulled it out, looked down, and unclenched her fingers. There, in her hand, was a single gold-packaged condom.

  “Ollie ollie oxen free!” Abigail called out. Caroline knew from a thousand games of hide-and-seek that her sister was still in the front hallway. She shoved the condom into her pocket, lifted the dust ruffle, spotted the bracelet, crammed it back into its box, stuffed that into her other pocket, and rushed from the room, heart racing, breath jagged, closing the door tight behind her. Her satin dress hung unevenly now, weighed down by the bracelet.

  Abigail stood in the center of the living room, her blond hair curled uniformly. She was wearing white, of course: her Coke-bottle shape filled out the wide skirt of her sundress, the perfectly fitted top sprinkled with flower eyelets. Her shoulders were back and down, chin parallel to the floor, her confidence well-practiced. A white sash with pink script slashed its way across her breasts. Caroline tugged at the flat skirt of her own pale blue dress, suddenly aware of its awkward color and too-tight, overflowing top, and remembered how she’d once assumed her chest would look like her sister’s someday. She slowly navigated her way toward Abigail, careful not to knock any of the bows off of the chairs.

  “What were you doing in Nannie’s room?” Abigail asked. Caroline heard the accusation hiding behind her smooth tone. She felt a bead of sweat drip down her back. Abigail’s need to control everything was exactly why Caroline hadn’t wanted anything to do with this shower.

  “Oh, nothing,” Caroline said, attempting to sound cute as if to imply she had some secret task.

  Her sister’s eyes turned hard above her gleaming smile. “Why are you here early, anyway?” she asked. “We could have used a hand loading everything at the house.”

  It was a challenge, to be sure, the beginning of a fight waged a thousand times. To Abigail, Caroline was ungrateful, reckless, babied. And Caroline was tired of Abigail always trying to mom her. They each pulled back their familiar arrows, ready to take verbal aim when Ruthie yelled from the kitchen. “Abby! Leave it be!” Adding: “Some things are supposed to be a surprise.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes and flashed a warning smile at her sister. They could hear their mother’s agitation from t
he living room—plastic lids crinkled as they were lifted off vegetable trays, plates clinked as they left cabinets, ice clanged as it fell into pitchers.

  “Are you actually going to try and seem happy today?” Abby asked, her voice so bright no hesitation was permissible.

  “Of course I will,” Caroline said. But when she turned away to head to the kitchen and make herself useful, Abigail grabbed the soft part of her arm and pulled her back.

  “Ow, wha-at?” Caroline whined.

  “She’s acting weird,” Abigail said, quieter now, looking toward the kitchen. She leaned closer. Caroline was a full head taller and could detect the faint scent of singed hair beneath her sister’s subtle lavender perfume.

  The two of them were always trying to be close. Every year on Caroline’s birthday, Abigail would write her a note about how she wanted to work on their relationship, or how she wished they could speak to each other in a language no one else knew, or text each other first with good news. But it never lasted past Caroline borrowing a cute top without asking or forgetting to hang up her towel in the bathroom, which is to say a few days at most. Then Abigail would return to correcting Caroline’s grammar, rolling her eyes whenever she spoke, and reminding her that she was six years older. Caroline still saved all of Abigail’s cards in a box that she hid under her bed, a reminder that it was her own fault.

  “Weird how?” Caroline asked, removing her sister’s acrylic nails from the back of her arm and pinching the fat there herself.

  “I dunno. Mrs. Debbie called before we left the house and Mom was, like, really silent on the phone and just said, ‘Thank you so much for letting me know,’ and then wouldn’t tell me anything about it the whole drive over.” Abigail crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Abigail.” Caroline sighed. “It’s probably a surprise for later. Can you please just chill?” But Abigail’s intuition had always been good. In small-group Bible studies, the other girls said prophecy was her spiritual gift—and sometimes it seemed like they were right.

  “It’s not like her,” Abigail said.

  She would know, Caroline thought. She and their mother were so much alike. They were the wives of noble character promised in Proverbs 31, constantly quoting their favorite verse: “Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting, but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.” Caroline looked at her mother in the kitchen, noted her hunched shoulders and unfocused eyes. Abigail was right. This wasn’t like her. Ruthie Nolan was a woman who always served with a smile.

  “Yeah, I guess she does seem a little off,” Caroline said, glancing at Abigail out of the corner of her eye. “Do you want me to ask her about the call?”

  Before Abigail could answer, they heard the first crunch of tires over gravel and the clapping of a car door closing, and already another crunched behind it.

  Abigail’s curls swayed as she shook her head. “Later, okay?” she said, because they were here: the women of the Hope Church.

  They poured through the front door like fire ants from a demolished hill: forty-five women, all on time. They came in holding the front door for one another, kissing cheeks, pointing at the lights and the flower garlands suspended from the hall ceiling. Abigail and Caroline faced them together. By the time the women hit the end of the long hall, both girls would appear happy and humble. For they were, above almost all else, Luke Nolan’s daughters.

  As Abigail hugged and flashed her big teeth, Caroline traded flutes of champagne for gift-wrapped boxes. The women pointed at the pictures Caroline had brought in, now artfully arranged on the kitchen island; they fingered the lace table runners, exclaimed over cupcakes with the couple’s initials piped in buttercream. The temperature of the room rose five degrees. Caroline fanned her face with her hand. She wished they could have narrowed the guest list, though she knew that was never an option. It’s impossible for a pastor’s family to host a small event. There are too many people to potentially offend, too many church members who act more like aunts and uncles than neighbors. Everyone’s hips were up against chairs, hands on one another, purses knocking into lamps and side tables. It all felt excessive and nauseating. Caroline answered the same questions over and over, smiled politely, each interaction like a bloodletting, draining a bit more of her energy.

  Her entire life, this had been Caroline’s role: Luke Nolan’s younger, less important daughter. And today was no different. She listened as Abigail told a humorous anecdote to three women about how she’d had to call seven different flower shops to find the perfect yellow roses for the ceremony. Caroline knew these women because each of them had sent her sons against their will to ask her to the senior prom this past spring.

  In a way, the Nolan women had been preparing for this day, this summer, for Abigail’s engagement, their entire lives. As the daughters of a famous and beloved pastor, the girls had attended hundreds of bridal showers, each one held at the church in the women’s ministry room with soggy sandwiches, dwindling juice pitchers, and oft-repeated if unconvincing meet-cute stories. Luke Nolan officiated, on average, thirty weddings a year, and his daughters were invited to most of them—their every Saturday from late May to early September booked with double-header showers so similar they blurred together in Caroline’s memory, showers that were followed by equally forgettable weddings. Abigail had made it her personal mission to surpass them all. She wanted her long-anticipated season to be one that girls in Hope, Texas, talked about for years to come. To Caroline, it felt like a fantasy set aflame.

  “So you’re off to the big city for school next month, I hear?” a woman asked. Caroline donned a smile and spun around to find Mrs. Brody. Somewhere in the walls, the air conditioner kicked back on and women around the room cheered at the promise of cool air.

  “I am,” Caroline said with practiced confidence. A corner fan blew a strand of hair into her lip gloss. She struggled to remove it for long enough that Mrs. Brody averted her blue-shadowed eyes. Caroline continued smiling, tried to play it off, but she could feel her cheeks reddening.

  “I hafta admit I’m a bit surprised you aren’t going to Texas Christian like your sister,” Mrs. Brody said in the same chiding tone Caroline had heard from just about everyone in town since she’d made her decision a few months back.

  Of course you are, Caroline thought, it’s all anyone ever says to me. She smiled. “They don’t have as good of an advertising program. I think it will be a good fit for me.” What she wanted to say was that anything would be a better fit than these dresses that hit at a demure but unflattering length right above the knee, and these women she’d loved all her life but who’d never really known her. Her mother always said she should be grateful to have a community that cared so much about her, even if their meddling annoyed her most of the time.

  “I know it’s far, but I really want to have a career,” Caroline said, and steeled herself for the next part of this conversation, where she might be warned about the dangers of a big city like Austin and the creep of liberalism, or be subjected to some drawn-out account of how this woman’s son’s best friend’s sister had found a church there despite all odds, and would Caroline like her email? Mrs. Brody fingered the large cross pendant that hung almost to her belly button and opened her mouth—likely to tell some version of the same overblown horror story—when Mrs. Debbie appeared behind her, silencing whatever Mrs. Brody had been about to say.

  Caroline focused on keeping her body still and her smile genuine as she greeted Mrs. Debbie, whose large frame was draped in layers and layers of floral fabric despite the Texas heat. Mrs. Debbie said a quick hello to Caroline as she steered Mrs. Brody toward the chairs at the center of the room. Mrs. Brody smiled at Caroline on her way past. “Just don’t let that big city make you forget where you come from,” she said.

  “It’s time for gifts,” Mrs. Debbie sang as she shepherded the women one by one, a hand placed between their shoulders, the other pointing away from the snacks and into the circle. It was said that Mrs. Debbie held the hea
rt of the Hope Church tightly in her fist. She ran the small group that organized their volunteer events and coat drives, Bible studies and women’s lunches. She alone decided whose secrets would be held close to the chest and whose scattered to sprout like wildflower seeds. The elders called her a force. The young mothers swore she was a baby whisperer. Even the teens admitted that she gave good advice. Basically, if the Hope Church had believed in sainthood, Mrs. Debbie would have been the first one canonized.

  Caroline hurried to her place at the front of the room but remained standing, fumbling with the plastic trash bag that hung on the back of her chair, looking around for her sister. She knew there was no point in sitting until Abigail had taken the seat next to hers. She watched the women sweep their dresses beneath them, cross their legs at their ankles. Abigail slowly made her way over to the front of the semicircle, placing a hand on the backs of chairs to squeeze past, joking about the tight quarters. With every few steps her eyes flitted toward the kitchen. Caroline followed her gaze and saw that their mother was leaning against the kitchen cabinets facing Mrs. Debbie, her lips tight. Then Abigail was there beside her, poking Caroline’s shoulder, asking her to move. Caroline leaned against the chair in front of her and her sister slid past, plopped down into her seat with a smile. A navy box with a white bow appeared in Abigail’s lap. Caroline sat and bent to pick up the notebook and pen they’d hidden underneath her chair. She jotted down the giver’s name.

  Abigail’s friends, many of whom had driven from the nearby towns they’d moved to with their husbands after their own weddings, cooed at the wineglasses and gravy boats, passing the items clockwise so each guest could marvel and declare that these were the best and she should know because she had them too. A few women snapped photos of the bride-to-be, backlit by the window, flushing to the breastbone when she opened a lace baby-doll nightie and ducked her head to keep from making eye contact with her fiancé’s mother, sitting in the second row.