Claire Matturro's Blog
August 10, 2021
Sample pages from Wayward Girls (Red Adept Publishing 2021)
Wayward Girls
"Sizzling with tension and intriguing characters, Wayward Girls,by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel, is set in a creepy Central Florida boarding school that is supposed to provide structure for teens whose parents or therapists have deemed them as too rebellious, who thought they were "crazy girls. The ones who lied." Their infractions seem to be as trivial as skipping school—so what's really going on?... The careful unfolding of the truth as the story moves back and forth in time is a testament to the skill of these talented authors. ... The Matturro-Koepsel collaboration has produced a compelling novel, one worthy of wide readership and a lasting place on bookshelves." ~Southern Literary Review August Read of the Month.
"With characters so vivid and multi-dimensional, you'll find yourself rooting for them, however long the odds. A tightly woven and eminently engaging tale, Wayward Girls is a can't miss book for any audience." ~Bradenton (FL) Times
"...a highly readable book with a strong sense of purpose. ... Matturro and Koepsel have plotted the tale well, with high stakes and believable motives."~ Crime Fiction Lover
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097TVKVDH/
Red Adept Publishing, LLC
104 Bugenfield Court
Garner, NC 27529
https://RedAdeptPublishing.com/
Copyright © 2021 by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Southwest Georgia, Now
Jude sat on the second-floor deck of her house and listened to the sounds of coming night. Beside her, Carson, her Rhodesian Ridgeback, bit at a firefly, his teeth clicking as his jaws snapped. In the surrounding woods, an owl hooted above the sound of its prey scurrying through dry leaves.
Jude reached for her glass of vodka and ice. As she did, Carson licked her hand and lay his head in her lap.
“My sweet friend, it’s all right,” she whispered.
As her long hair blew across her thin face, Jude sipped. The vodka tasted clean, cold, and familiar. After emptying the glass, she dropped it on the deck and straightened in her chair. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize her next painting, a sentimental piece commissioned through her gallery.
The landline rang inside the house, a jarring interruption. Jude rose, a bit unsteady on her feet, and went down the stairs one slow step at a time. In the kitchen, she paused by the phone, letting the answering machine pick up.
“Hello, Jude. It’s me, Clarence.” The husky voice paused then added, “Farmer Max,” as if she wouldn’t remember.
Jude backed away from the phone on tiptoe and smoothed the T-shirt over her worn jeans as if the man could see her. Then she reached for the bottle of vodka on the counter and poured a jigger full.
“Call me, okay? Doesn’t matter if it’s late.” Farmer Max left his number. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Been a while, babe, I know, but… call. Please.”
“Oh, damn, Carson, something’s wrong.” Jude tossed a big mouthful of vodka down so quickly she coughed.
After another pause, Farmer Max’s voice, softer that time, spoke again. “They’re demolishing your old boarding school. Talbot, I mean. I figured you and your little buddy Camille might—”
The machine cut off. Jude waited without moving to see if he would call back and finish. But he didn’t. She erased the message.
Jude tottered into her bedroom and dropped onto her bed with the overhead light still on. She wished she hadn’t deleted his phone message. His phrase, “your little buddy Camille,” repeated in her head. She hadn’t spoken to Camille in years.
She rested a moment before moving a hand off her chest and toward her throat. She fingered the blue African trade beads around her neck that Farmer Max had given her years ago as if they held enough magic to make the room stop spinning.
Rolling the beads under her fingertips made her think of Camille’s rosary in the locked box. She pulled herself into a sitting position as the floor seemed to drop away. Ignoring the spinning, she crawled out of bed and stumbled toward the rolltop desk in the corner. Carson leapt up, ran toward her, and pushed his weight against her.
Through her dizziness, Jude made it to the desk then collapsed into the chair in front of it. She pulled open one of the deep, wooden drawers. In the back, under a pile of old bills, she found the locked box and lifted it out. Holding it on her lap, she traced the edges with her fingers. Carson sniffed it and rolled his eyes toward her face as if asking what it was all about.
Jude rotated through the numbers on the lock until it sprung. She opened the box. Shoving aside the house deed and her birth certificate, she dug around in the bottom, looking for Camille’s rosary.
What had Camille called it? A St. Maria rosary? The cool, green beads caught the light as she lifted them out. Farmer Max had picked the rosary up from the dirt in the orange grove back at Talbot, cleaned it, and given it to her to return to Camille. Instead, Jude had kept it through all her moves, even in the bad years. She couldn’t have said why.
She pressed the beads between her palms as if to crush them. The long vertical scar beneath her left eye pulsed as her heart kicked faster inside her chest and a thin sheen of sweat spread over her face.
***
Savannah, Now
Camille eased down on the bed beside her open suitcase and massaged the trapezius muscle on the left side of her neck. Her gritty eyes were a painful reminder that she needed to remove her contacts. Just moments before, she’d been hunched over her laptop downstairs, finishing her article on teen suicide for a peer-reviewed journal. She wondered if writing and working as an adjunct professor was too much on top of being a private psychological-services provider.
“Here. Maybe this will help.” Grant handed her a glass of wine. “A Simi Cabernet with hints of pepper, cedar, cloves, and dark cocoa.”
Camille took the glass and smiled. They’d come a long way since all that Gallo jug wine they’d drunk as teens. She took a hearty taste then put the glass down and rose from the bed, stepping toward her closet. Central Florida would be hot, not that Savannah in June was cool. She pulled out some cotton capris.
Grant slipped in beside her. “You don’t have to go.”
Yes, I do. Watching the headmaster’s house burn to ash all those years before hadn’t been enough. She needed to see the old school building smashed to rubble.
She dropped the clothes on the bed and ran her fingers through her spiky hair. Farmer Max had said a demolition crew would be taking down the old Talbot building the day after next, so she had to leave in the morning to get there in time to watch.
“Why don’t I go with you? Maybe I can help.” Grant paused as if carefully considering his next words. “That is, if you want me to join you.”
Camille sat still, hardly breathing. No, she didn’t want Grant with her. She wanted Jude.
He began to massage her shoulders. Quieting herself, she struggled not to flip his hands off her shoulders, stepping forward and away from him. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
“All right, if that’s how you want it.” Grant’s voice was low, as if he was afraid of waking someone.
When she didn’t speak, he left, shutting the bedroom door behind him. She grabbed her wine glass then sat next to the suitcase again. Poor Grant. He’d deserved more, but she had never been able to offer it to him. He’d simply been comfortable and safe in a time when she’d felt too broken to deserve happiness. He still thought of her as the girl she’d been before Talbot, but the marriage had never been what either of them had hoped it would be.
After polishing off her wine, Camille rose, stepped toward the giant walk-in closet, opened the door, and stepped inside. She flipped on the light and just stood there, unsure of what she was doing, stunned by the wine and her fatigue. Finally, she shut the door behind her to blunt the light in case Grant prowled the hallway again. Stooping, she dug down below boxes of shoes and suitcases until she unearthed an old cedar chest that had once belonged to a grandmother she’d never met.
After lifting the heavy lid, she tugged at the quilts inside, rooting under them until her fingers touched a cardboard edge.
Camille pulled out her journals, sifting through them until she found the first one from Talbot Hall. She sprawled out on the floor, her back against the closet wall. When she opened the journal, a smell, musty like mildew and burnt marijuana, hit her nose. She sneezed. Looking down at the first page, she saw tiny, precise writing that looked nothing like the bold, loopy way she wrote as an adult.
Why rub my nose in it? Why go back?
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds in the house—the hum of the refrigerator, the click of the security system, the dull vibrations from the air conditioning, her own harsh breathing.
The crazy girls. The ones who lied.
Opening her eyes, she strained to read the tiny words on the yellowed pages.
"Sizzling with tension and intriguing characters, Wayward Girls,by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel, is set in a creepy Central Florida boarding school that is supposed to provide structure for teens whose parents or therapists have deemed them as too rebellious, who thought they were "crazy girls. The ones who lied." Their infractions seem to be as trivial as skipping school—so what's really going on?... The careful unfolding of the truth as the story moves back and forth in time is a testament to the skill of these talented authors. ... The Matturro-Koepsel collaboration has produced a compelling novel, one worthy of wide readership and a lasting place on bookshelves." ~Southern Literary Review August Read of the Month.
"With characters so vivid and multi-dimensional, you'll find yourself rooting for them, however long the odds. A tightly woven and eminently engaging tale, Wayward Girls is a can't miss book for any audience." ~Bradenton (FL) Times
"...a highly readable book with a strong sense of purpose. ... Matturro and Koepsel have plotted the tale well, with high stakes and believable motives."~ Crime Fiction Lover
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097TVKVDH/
Red Adept Publishing, LLC
104 Bugenfield Court
Garner, NC 27529
https://RedAdeptPublishing.com/
Copyright © 2021 by Claire Matturro and Penny Koepsel. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Southwest Georgia, Now
Jude sat on the second-floor deck of her house and listened to the sounds of coming night. Beside her, Carson, her Rhodesian Ridgeback, bit at a firefly, his teeth clicking as his jaws snapped. In the surrounding woods, an owl hooted above the sound of its prey scurrying through dry leaves.
Jude reached for her glass of vodka and ice. As she did, Carson licked her hand and lay his head in her lap.
“My sweet friend, it’s all right,” she whispered.
As her long hair blew across her thin face, Jude sipped. The vodka tasted clean, cold, and familiar. After emptying the glass, she dropped it on the deck and straightened in her chair. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize her next painting, a sentimental piece commissioned through her gallery.
The landline rang inside the house, a jarring interruption. Jude rose, a bit unsteady on her feet, and went down the stairs one slow step at a time. In the kitchen, she paused by the phone, letting the answering machine pick up.
“Hello, Jude. It’s me, Clarence.” The husky voice paused then added, “Farmer Max,” as if she wouldn’t remember.
Jude backed away from the phone on tiptoe and smoothed the T-shirt over her worn jeans as if the man could see her. Then she reached for the bottle of vodka on the counter and poured a jigger full.
“Call me, okay? Doesn’t matter if it’s late.” Farmer Max left his number. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Been a while, babe, I know, but… call. Please.”
“Oh, damn, Carson, something’s wrong.” Jude tossed a big mouthful of vodka down so quickly she coughed.
After another pause, Farmer Max’s voice, softer that time, spoke again. “They’re demolishing your old boarding school. Talbot, I mean. I figured you and your little buddy Camille might—”
The machine cut off. Jude waited without moving to see if he would call back and finish. But he didn’t. She erased the message.
Jude tottered into her bedroom and dropped onto her bed with the overhead light still on. She wished she hadn’t deleted his phone message. His phrase, “your little buddy Camille,” repeated in her head. She hadn’t spoken to Camille in years.
She rested a moment before moving a hand off her chest and toward her throat. She fingered the blue African trade beads around her neck that Farmer Max had given her years ago as if they held enough magic to make the room stop spinning.
Rolling the beads under her fingertips made her think of Camille’s rosary in the locked box. She pulled herself into a sitting position as the floor seemed to drop away. Ignoring the spinning, she crawled out of bed and stumbled toward the rolltop desk in the corner. Carson leapt up, ran toward her, and pushed his weight against her.
Through her dizziness, Jude made it to the desk then collapsed into the chair in front of it. She pulled open one of the deep, wooden drawers. In the back, under a pile of old bills, she found the locked box and lifted it out. Holding it on her lap, she traced the edges with her fingers. Carson sniffed it and rolled his eyes toward her face as if asking what it was all about.
Jude rotated through the numbers on the lock until it sprung. She opened the box. Shoving aside the house deed and her birth certificate, she dug around in the bottom, looking for Camille’s rosary.
What had Camille called it? A St. Maria rosary? The cool, green beads caught the light as she lifted them out. Farmer Max had picked the rosary up from the dirt in the orange grove back at Talbot, cleaned it, and given it to her to return to Camille. Instead, Jude had kept it through all her moves, even in the bad years. She couldn’t have said why.
She pressed the beads between her palms as if to crush them. The long vertical scar beneath her left eye pulsed as her heart kicked faster inside her chest and a thin sheen of sweat spread over her face.
***
Savannah, Now
Camille eased down on the bed beside her open suitcase and massaged the trapezius muscle on the left side of her neck. Her gritty eyes were a painful reminder that she needed to remove her contacts. Just moments before, she’d been hunched over her laptop downstairs, finishing her article on teen suicide for a peer-reviewed journal. She wondered if writing and working as an adjunct professor was too much on top of being a private psychological-services provider.
“Here. Maybe this will help.” Grant handed her a glass of wine. “A Simi Cabernet with hints of pepper, cedar, cloves, and dark cocoa.”
Camille took the glass and smiled. They’d come a long way since all that Gallo jug wine they’d drunk as teens. She took a hearty taste then put the glass down and rose from the bed, stepping toward her closet. Central Florida would be hot, not that Savannah in June was cool. She pulled out some cotton capris.
Grant slipped in beside her. “You don’t have to go.”
Yes, I do. Watching the headmaster’s house burn to ash all those years before hadn’t been enough. She needed to see the old school building smashed to rubble.
She dropped the clothes on the bed and ran her fingers through her spiky hair. Farmer Max had said a demolition crew would be taking down the old Talbot building the day after next, so she had to leave in the morning to get there in time to watch.
“Why don’t I go with you? Maybe I can help.” Grant paused as if carefully considering his next words. “That is, if you want me to join you.”
Camille sat still, hardly breathing. No, she didn’t want Grant with her. She wanted Jude.
He began to massage her shoulders. Quieting herself, she struggled not to flip his hands off her shoulders, stepping forward and away from him. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
“All right, if that’s how you want it.” Grant’s voice was low, as if he was afraid of waking someone.
When she didn’t speak, he left, shutting the bedroom door behind him. She grabbed her wine glass then sat next to the suitcase again. Poor Grant. He’d deserved more, but she had never been able to offer it to him. He’d simply been comfortable and safe in a time when she’d felt too broken to deserve happiness. He still thought of her as the girl she’d been before Talbot, but the marriage had never been what either of them had hoped it would be.
After polishing off her wine, Camille rose, stepped toward the giant walk-in closet, opened the door, and stepped inside. She flipped on the light and just stood there, unsure of what she was doing, stunned by the wine and her fatigue. Finally, she shut the door behind her to blunt the light in case Grant prowled the hallway again. Stooping, she dug down below boxes of shoes and suitcases until she unearthed an old cedar chest that had once belonged to a grandmother she’d never met.
After lifting the heavy lid, she tugged at the quilts inside, rooting under them until her fingers touched a cardboard edge.
Camille pulled out her journals, sifting through them until she found the first one from Talbot Hall. She sprawled out on the floor, her back against the closet wall. When she opened the journal, a smell, musty like mildew and burnt marijuana, hit her nose. She sneezed. Looking down at the first page, she saw tiny, precise writing that looked nothing like the bold, loopy way she wrote as an adult.
Why rub my nose in it? Why go back?
She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds in the house—the hum of the refrigerator, the click of the security system, the dull vibrations from the air conditioning, her own harsh breathing.
The crazy girls. The ones who lied.
Opening her eyes, she strained to read the tiny words on the yellowed pages.
