Free Book Excerpts

After Whitney’s cat dies, she makes up her mind to find out if animals to go Heaven. At first she tries the library, but God has an even better idea.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Whitney awoke to sunlight spilling through her window. “Yes! I’m finally here!” She kicked off the sheet and jumped out of bed. “I’ll be with Mamaw and Scarlet everyday for the whole summer!”
She put her bare feet on the tile floor and it felt nice and cool, not cold like it was where she and her parents had lived for the past year.
Whitney had spent all nine years of her life living next door to Mamaw and Scarlet until her parents, who were both doctors, had accepted jobs in another state last year. It was so good to be back to her warm, sunny home where flowers bloomed all year. Now she and Mamaw, and their ancient cat, Scarlet, could work in the rose garden or walk to the beach anytime they wanted. Oh, how I’ve missed spending time with Mamaw and Scarlet!
Next to Whitney’s parents, she loved Mamaw and Scarlet more than anyone in the world. Right then she wasn’t sure whom she’d missed more, Mamaw or the cat.
A grin split her face as she looked around her bedroom. Other than a short visit last Christmas, she’d been gone for a year, but all her things were where she’d left them. She grabbed her favorite picture of Scarlet off the nightstand and stared lovingly at the little cat’s face.
Scarlet was a small, dainty calico with streaks of gray, white, and yellow, and her pink-tipped nose matched the color of her toes. Born long before Whitney, she was very old, so old that she was a legend around town. Whitney and Scarlet had a close bond, and as the cat’s wise, green eyes stared back at her from the picture, she seemed to know how happy Whitney was to be home. Whitney had never had her own pet and that made Scarlet extra special. In a way, Scarlet was her cat too.
Closing her eyes, Whitney took a deep breath and hugged the picture to her heart. She thought about how Scarlet always smelled like fresh-cut grass and clover. Tingling with excitement, she could hardly wait to step into the kitchen, scoop her up, and smell her hair for real. Carefully replacing the picture, she did a little dance, then ran to the window and threw open the shutters.
The birds were at the feeder and the colorful rose garden covered half the back yard. If there was anything better than the beach, it was the rose garden.
Along with roses there was an inviting butterfly garden. Her breath caught in her throat as a rainbow of butterflies danced from bloom to bloom. Two hummingbirds, not much larger than moths, caught her eye. They zipped between red, trumpet-shaped flowers, hovered and drank. Mamaw’s back yard was better than the enchanted worlds in Whitney’s favorite books. She sighed with joy.
Papaw, who’d passed away four years ago, had designed and planted the garden for Mamaw because Rose was both her name and favorite flower.
Whitney remembered two things most about Papaw: sitting beside him on the back porch watching fuzzy bumblebees bore holes in the eaves while he taught her about Jesus, and him showing her the proper way to chew on stems of grass and roll the flavor around on her tongue.
The smell of roses tickled Whitney’s nose. She inhaled so deeply her lungs hurt, held it as long as she could, then breathed out with a long swoosh. I’m home at last!
In front of the mirror she ran her fingers through her snarled, light blond hair. She looked a lot like Mamaw had at her age. Over the years Mamaw’s curls had turned solid white but her fair skin was still smooth and they had the same upturned nose, sky-blue eyes and bright smile.
The most fun thing they had in common was considering themselves half Tomboy and half girly-girl. One day they might be giving each other a manicure or baking teacakes, and the next they might be fishing with cane poles and real worms while Scarlet napped in the sun.
Mamaw’s real name was Rose Marie Christian. She and Papaw were retired missionaries. Mamaw was a well-known author of children’s books about a missionary family who had terrific adventures in foreign lands that Whitney hoped to visit one day.
Mamaw’s cottage was close enough to the beach to walk and Whitney wanted to go there today. She loved the salt breeze on her face and the way the squishy sand disappeared from underneath her feet each time a wave rolled in.
After breakfast she would ask Mamaw if they could take Scarlet for a walk on the beach and collect shells. If they were lucky they might even see some hermit crabs before the creatures scampered away, burying themselves in the sand.
Whitney gave up on the tangles in her hair and quickly changed into shorts and a pullover top. Not bothering with shoes, she darted from her room. But when she rounded the corner into the kitchen her smile faded. Something was wrong.
The kitchen was silent and still. Mamaw wasn’t at the counter, humming and sifting flour into the wooden bowl to make buttermilk biscuits as she usually was this time of morning. And Scarlet, who should be purring and rubbing herself against Mamaw’s legs, was nowhere to be seen.
Whitney looked through the window. Mamaw was slumped in her favorite chair on the back porch. Her white curls were untidy and that wasn’t like her at all. Eyes closed, hands folded beneath her chin, her face was lifted toward the sky. She was praying, but it wasn’t her usual style. The strangest thing of all was that Scarlet wasn’t there beside her, neither in her lap nor lying at her feet. The little cat wasn’t on the porch at all. Not wanting to disturb Mamaw, Whitney stood still.
Mamaw opened her eyes and turned toward her. Tears stained her face, her nose red, her cheeks raw. She opened her arms wide. Whitney rushed to her and the old lady gathered her up. “Darling girl….”
“Mamaw?”
“I’m here.”
“What’s wrong?” Whitney asked, feeling like her world was tilting sideways. “And where’s Scarlet?”
“Everything’s going to be okay. The Lord is in control.”
“Where’s Scarlet?”
Mamaw looked at her tenderly, but didn’t say anything.
“Mamaw… where’s Scarlet?” Whitney’s voice rose in panic and she frantically looked around. “Where is she? Where’s our cat?”
Mamaw clutched Whitney’s arms. Whitney pulled away and looked around. “Scarlet, where are you?”
Mamaw hugged her close and Whitney sank against her chest. “Oh, darling girl… I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“It’s about Scarlet, isn’t it? Something happened to her. Is she sick? Is she at the vet’s? Where is she?”
“She isn’t here,” Mamaw said. “Early this morning the angels came and took Scarlet to Heaven with them.”
Whitney swallowed hard. She wet her dry lips. Her throat ached, and her chest felt like it did the time she got the breath knocked out of her by a basketball during a game last year. It had hurt so bad she’d had to sit out for the rest of the game and in the end her team had lost. Only this pain was worse than anything she’d ever known. She whispered the awful words. “Scarlet died?” Her ears were roaring so loudly she could barely hear her own voice.
“I’m afraid she did,” Mamaw said weakly.
“Oh, no! No!”
Mamaw kissed the top of her head. “You know she was very, very old. The vet had been telling me for years it wouldn’t be long. The Lord was good and let us keep her for a long time.”
Tears spilled from Whitney’s eyes. “It’s not fair! She was my cat too! I didn’t get to tell her how much I love her! I didn’t even get to say good-bye!” She would never again rub her face against Scarlet’s soft fur, listen to her purr, or feel her whiskers tickle her nose. “Do you think she knew I loved her?”Whitney’s heart hurt so bad she couldn’t wait for an answer. She buried her face in her hands and wept so hard her body shook.
Hugging Whitney close, Mamaw tried to smile through her own tears. “Don’t worry… she knew we all loved her, especially you.”
Whitney pressed her face against Mamaw’s shoulder and sobbed until her tears soaked all the way though the old lady’s dress. Mamaw stroked her hair while they cried together. Whitney felt like her heart would never stop breaking. When she was finally able to wipe her face with her hands and sit up, she asked, “Mamaw?”
“Yes, my love?”
“I know you were trying to make me feel better when you said the angels came and took her to Heaven. That was your way of telling me she passed away.”
“I thought it would be easier… saying it like that, I mean.”
“Do animals really go to Heaven, or is it only a place for humans?”
Mamaw sighed. “God is the only one who knows for sure. That’s where faith comes in. Hebrews 11:1 tells us that faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.”
“But what does that mean?” Whitney asked.
“It means that God wants the best for all of us and that includes His creatures.” Mamaw’s face softened. “Animals are very special. God created them before He created man.”
“She was the best cat anyone could ever have.”
Mamaw nodded. “That, she was.”
“I’ll never forget her,” Whitney said solemnly.
“Neither will I. I truly believe she’s up there in Heaven, and that we’ll see her again when it’s time.”
Whitney looked up at Mamaw and their blue eyes met. “Mamaw, would it make you feel better to know for sure that Scarlet is in Heaven?”
The old lady smiled and her blue eyes sparkled for the first time that morning. “It sure would. It would be a blessing.”
Whitney slipped her small hand into Mamaw’s.
Mamaw’s warm fingers wrapped around hers and squeezed.
They exchanged weak smiles. Whitney thought, Then what’s stopping me from finding out?
Jumbled thoughts swirled in her head and a seed of hope was planted. A plan took root and began to form. It sprouted, then shot up so fast she felt dizzy. Filled with purpose, she sat up straight.
For the first time since hearing the awful news, hope swelled in her chest and it stopped hurting to breathe. She vowed that she would do whatever she had to do to accomplish the plan. She didn’t know how, but she was somehow going to prove that animals go to Heaven!

Read more about Scarlet’s Garden: The Visit and Penny Taylor HERE.

Copyright 2010 Penny Taylor. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.