The stories we carry, p.1
The Stories We Carry, page 1
Praise for Robin W. Pearson
In The Stories We Carry, Pearson gives us an unflinching look at a marriage and all its highs, lows, and loving compromises. It’s also an ode to bookstores, the stories contained within them, and deep-seated dreams—both those we chase and those we release. Fans of inspirational fiction will love Pearson’s latest engrossing read!
LAUREN K. DENTON, USA Today bestselling author of Hurricane Season
Robin W. Pearson has proven yet again that her pen is anointed. The Stories We Carry is a deeply moving novel about the burden of secrets, the ache of loss, and healing through a journey to God’s truth. With rich storytelling and unforgettable characters, this story offered the gift of restoration. Readers won't soon forget the messages found between the pages.
RHONDA MCKNIGHT, Emma Award–winning author of The Thing About Home
In the small fictional town of Gilmore, North Carolina, novelist Robin W. Pearson brings to life an intriguing coterie of old friends, customers, and mysterious strangers, all drawn to protagonist Glory Pryor and the welcoming bookstore she lives above. As secrets from the past come to light, Glory and her circle must decide where the path to love and redemption lies—and whether they have the courage to follow it.
VALERIE FRASER LUESSE, Christy Award–winning author of The Light on Horn Island, on The Stories We Carry
In The Stories We Carry, Pearson illustrates the complexity of family dynamics with authenticity and grace. She paints a poignant picture of grief and regret as the characters grapple with learning when to let go and when to hang on tight. It’s the type of book you close with a happy sigh and tears brimming in your eyes.
AMANDA COX, author of Between the Sound and Sea
Crafted with exquisite details that make you long for more time in the lush Carolina mountains with the flawed, relatable characters and the charming bookstore they inhabit, The Stories We Carry is premier upmarket fiction at its best.
JAYNA BREIGH, author of The Hunted Heir
Pearson paints a vivid and moving picture of the stories that shape us and what is required and gained in surrendering to love greater than our own. An emotional, thought-provoking story that speaks to the heart of every generation.
CATHY GOHLKE, Christy Hall of Fame author of This Promised Land, on The Stories We Carry
A fascinating and insightful story. Beautifully written. . . . I felt immersed in the story from the first page. Robin W. Pearson’s writing has that rare mix of depth, raw honesty, while still maintaining an undertone of humor and hopefulness.
CINDY MORGAN, award-winning singer/songwriter and author of The Year of Jubilee, on Dysfunction Junction
Southern charm flows like molasses through barbed conversations in Dysfunction Junction. . . . Secrets and guilt wrestle their way to redemption in this quirky family tapestry. Robin W. Pearson’s unique voice is complex and captivating.
TESSA AFSHAR, award-winning author of The Queen’s Cook
Robin W. Pearson has a gift for capturing the complexity and nuances of family relationships. She brings a remarkable tenderness and compassion to the struggle we all face to know and be known in a family. Prepare yourself for a rich and satisfying read!
SARAH LOUDIN THOMAS, award-winning author of These Blue Mountains, on Walking in Tall Weeds
Pearson’s excellent characters and plotting capture the complexity and beauty of family. . . . Pearson rises to another level with this excellent story.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY starred review of ’Til I Want No More
Robin W. Pearson’s novels never fail to sing directly to my heart. . . . [Her] voice is strong and powerful. Listen up! You don’t want to miss a note!
SUSIE FINKBEINER, author of The All American, on Walking in Tall Weeds
A heartfelt tale about faith and family, readers can walk toward the altar with Maxine Owens as she tends to her past wounds.
DEEP SOUTH MAGAZINE on ’Til I Want No More
Robin W. Pearson’s authentic faith and abundant talent shine through in this wholehearted novel. Bee and Evelyn will stir your heart and stay with you long after the last page of A Long Time Comin’ is turned.
MARYBETH MAYHEW WHALEN, author of Every Moment Since
Pearson delivers a poignant debut that explores the faith of one African American family. The writing is strong, and the story is engaging, and readers will be pleased to discover a new voice in Southern inspirational fiction.
BOOKLIST on A Long Time Comin’
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Tyndale and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Ministries.
The Stories We Carry
Copyright © 2025 by Robin W. Pearson. All rights reserved.
Cover images are the property of their respective copyright holders from Shutterstock.com, and all rights reserved. Tudor house © Altin Osmanaj; window © Kurkul; vine © Chansom Pantip; flowering bush © Rungsan Nantaphum; books and cup © Maglara; steam © Galsand; rays © Oscar Gutzo.
Author photo taken by Bobbie Brown Photography, copyright © 2020. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Faceout Studio, Molly von Borstel.
Interior design by Cathy Miller
Edited by Kathryn S. Olson
Published in association with the literary agency of Books & Such Literary Management, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409.
Scripture quotations in the epigraph, chapter 11, chapter 12, and chapter 28 are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
James 5:12 in chapter 8 and the Scripture quotations in chapter 13, chapter 24, and the author’s note are taken from the New King James Version,® copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
John 1:14 in chapter 8 and the Scripture quotations in the acknowledgments are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
The URLs in this book were verified prior to publication. The publisher is not responsible for content in the links, links that have expired, or websites that have changed ownership after that time.
The Stories We Carry is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at csresponse@tyndale.com, or call 1-855-277-9400.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 979-8-4005-0125-8 (SC)
Build: 2025-07-10 13:16:17 EPUB 3.0
To Eddie . . . tuck and roll
Contents
Part One: Dog-Eared Pages Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: Clinging Vines Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Three: This Side of the Dirt Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Come, let us return to the Lord.
He has torn us to pieces;
now he will heal us.
He has injured us;
now he will bandage our wounds.
HOSEA 6:1
Come and see a man who told me everything I ever did! Could he possibly be the Messiah?
JOHN 4:29
This small garden is half my world
I am nothing to it—when all is said,
I plant the thorn and kiss the rose,
But they will grow when I am dead.
ANNE SPENCER
PART ONEDog-Eared Pages
1
IT WAS GLORY’S CHILDHOOD FRIEND who introduced her to Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, her all-time favorite book. She determined to become one of the Logans, bold and full of sass, for she surely loved as fiercely as they did. And she wanted to protect her family just as much—her big brother in particular. Her only brother and hero. The difference was they played for keeps, and Glory had lost big time.
Her bestie was also the first to redefine the word drunk, to give it a brand-new, sinister definition when she’d hissed it, her breath hot in Glory’s ear and smelling nutty and cinnamony like the waffle cone they’d taken bites of. Instead of “She’d drunk a whole glass of Kool-Aid,” Glory’s friend made it a noun, and a proper noun at that, with a name and a familiar face: Glory’s larger-than-life brother, Davis.
Ten years old at the time, just a year older than her favorite character, Glory had no idea what that word and its consequences looked like. Her church
Now, six months shy of sixty-four years old, Glory knew that the man staggering across Springs Church Road was toting something other than bones toward the maple tree, chair, and blanket he considered home. He led her to wonder yet again what had become of her brother, because her ten-year-old self was right: her folks hadn’t permitted anything but teetotalers in their holy and sanctified existence. Wondering and worrying were about as close as the middle-aged Glory would ever come to praying for Davis, or for herself or anyone else. Both were wasted efforts that took her to the same dead-end street; it was working that drove her to the answers she needed. Yet, she couldn’t help but hope that, perhaps, her brother had managed to scratch out a living in some other small North Carolina town like Glory’s, that he’d come back to himself and used that grin and winsome nature to help him turn things around. Hoping was all she’d had the courage to do; her guilt kept her from finding out if he’d ever become a hero to somebody else.
Ooh, there’s Vernelle with the kids. Where’ve they been all this time since school let out? I’m glad to see his daddy ran a comb through that poor child’s head. Mmm-mmm-mmm . . . they walk right by the barbershop every day; wouldn’t take no time to pop in.
Realizing she’d been absentmindedly fiddling with the tattered edges of the page resting in her palm, she looked down and again read,
The shadows gave chase at our first step,
as we hurried through the moon’s evening light.
Our pulses throbbed and our hearts, they leapt
at the beauty only childhood perceives.
We didn’t know to seek wisdom’s former ways,
before the matter’s end o’ertakes its beginnings.
We reveled in the now, lost then in youth’s haze,
and those moments, they were better than these.
No, there was no way her brother could be on this side of the dirt . . . or was there? Eyes almost shut against the tears that threatened, Glory peered through her lashes into the late afternoon sun. Her brain barely registered the man as he stumbled around the corner and disappeared behind By the Book, her home that doubled as her bookstore. Sitting there in her favorite position in her decades-old business, she set one label after another on her mental scale, offsetting its weight against her guilt, before dismissing it in favor of another more pernicious, heavier name to call herself. Something more fitting for what she had done, for all she had left undone. What those forthright characters from Roll of Thunder would never have done, though it was so like them to “revel in the now” and make the most of each moment.
Glory imagined her once-upon-a-time best friend flipping her ponytails over her shoulders, cupping her hand over somebody else’s ear, and muttering, “Poacher. Thief.” She wondered, What other names would she call me if she knew? Liar . . . impostor?
“Honeybun . . . Glory!”
Eli’s voice, nearly swallowed up by the thousands of volumes on the surrounding shelves, elicited a sigh of gratitude from deep within her. She welcomed the distraction her husband tended to present, and she shed the self-condemning words like old skin, though her heart still felt tender and exposed. This painful habit of name-calling would reclaim her thoughts the next day and the one after that, the moment she took up her afternoon roost by her front window. Fretting had become her daily ritual the moment Eli had broached another scary word: leave.
“Baby girl, where are you?” His baritone ricocheted off the plastered walls of the back stairwell connecting their third-floor living quarters with the first two floors that comprised their store.
“I’m where I always am this time of day!” You want to know where I am, Eli? I’m where I’m gon’ stay. Her thoughts always slipped into the vernacular from her childhood when she was deep in conversation with herself, another longtime habit of hers. She cocked a bejeweled ear to make sure her husband wasn’t close enough to hear her and muttered, “Now, don’t come down here talkin’ more of your nonsense,” before shaking her head. But Glory smiled a little because this game, their game, was more fun than the one she’d been engaged in when she was sitting by her lonesome. That man.
She tucked the poem back into the book she’d torn it from, but it no longer fit perfectly, and the feathery-light paper’s corners extended past the others. Using the glossy squared tips of her fingernails, she pressed a braided red cord deep into the gutter until only the fringed end of her handcrafted bookmark protruded from between the pages, like a telltale splotch of blood. When Glory closed the precious book with a soft thump, it seemed to exhale, and she took an appreciative whiff of long-ago days. Her mouth puckered as she tapped along the gold-stitched diamonds crisscrossing the hardcover, as if she was about to blow a kiss to the author, and she tsked, “But I’m not playin’ with you, Eli Pryor.”
Setting her bracelets a-tinkling, Glory rested a silk-draped arm along the back of her chair and clasped the scarred, black, cloth-like cover to her chest. The scents of freshly brewed coffee and warm something-or-other—Is that more snickerdoodles?—wafted from the kitchen in back and commingled with the mustiness of the first edition that was dying at about the same pace she was. Winking at her faint reflection in the wavy, one-hundred-year-old windowpane, she vowed, “Mmm-hmmm, I see you there, and you’re not going nowhere either, despite what Eli might say about it.” Glory couldn’t say whether it was her persnickety old self or the sprawling, historic Tudor that had sheltered her and her books from many a storm. Regardless, Glory Pryor meant every word. No way was she going to part with this place. It was who she was.
Resolved, Glory’s vermillion-colored lips compressed as she smoothed the orange, gold, red, and blue fabric of her muumuu across her narrow, well-arranged lap and gazed at their “children,” as she and Eli dubbed their inventory. When it first struck her years ago that these books would be her only babies and grandbabies and nephews and nieces, it had landed as a gut punch. The passage of time had nearly wrung the pain from this designation, and these days, she suffered only a quick yank of her heartstrings. No prolonged ache made the organ thud instead of beat in her bosom against the book she was now pressing to it, and it merely took a moment or two to resume its normal rhythm. Thank goodness she had Eli now, and he was good and plenty.
Glory listened to the faint thumping of her husband’s steps in the back of the house, where he must have headed after coming downstairs. Eli was up to his usual antics, which accounted for the tempting smell of cookies. Their baker, Ophelia, would have a fit when she came back to work and found he’d been clippety-clopping all through her kitchen. Even though Glory considered the not-so-old troll both friend and family, the woman brooked no interference when it came to whipping up goodies; Ophelia took her work for the bookstore’s café to heart. “You’d better leave your cousin’s domain, or she’ll have your head! If you know like I know, you’ll join me by the window, my de-ah.” She always said dear that way when it came to her precious Eli.
By this time of day, Glory found herself near or on this pale-yellow two-seater, its burgundy-and-green stripes worn to a soft sheen. She’d staked a claim on the overstuffed chair two decades earlier in the back of Downtown Cheapskate, a thrift store around the corner that carried the castoffs from the town’s few well-to-do families. The moment she’d laid eyes on it, she’d known its unusual L-shaped back would fit just so, wedged into the corner of her bookstore’s large front room.
For longer than Glory could remember, the sofa provided the ideal vantage point for her to peek through the triple-cased window without being seen by folks on the other side of the glass. Perched on its oversized, tufted cushions, she kept time by monitoring the birds or passersby, who- and whatever happened to be crossing Springs Church Road. She didn’t have to look at her watch to know when Noemie was locking up Pearline’s Jewels on her right or when that man with his bottle would be making his way from Hillman’s in the middle of town with his free plate—Let’s see, today is Wednesday, so it must be barbecue and coleslaw—to hunker down for the rest of the evening. “I should take him something sweet before we turn in for the night, whatever Eli is cooking up,” she decided.
