From FIJI honeymoon bliss to hometown chaos,
Sarah and Hank Lawson's small-town life heats up fast.
Disney wants the Lawson's bookstore in Willow Creek, California, with a Bigfoot twist.
Its more than business. It's War.
It's for the heart of their home.
Now, it's back to the whirlwind of Willow Creek.
Jake, her barely fifteen-year-old son suddenly wants to play grown-up and get engaged to Emily.
Hank and Sarah, dreaming big, dive headfirst into opening their bookstore cafe. But all isn't sweet tea and sunsets.
The wicked charm of Disney threatens to bulldoze their dreams, (quite literally,) while Lyle, her ex, fans the wildfires of destruction.
Their town splits at the seams, battling over land and legacy.
Hank stands fiercely protective, her rock amid the storm. They uncover secrets, nurture new romances, and forge family bonds.
A storm brews in Willow Creek, ready to tear them apart, or bring them together. But their love, like any good book, always has a massive plot twist.
Can Hank and Sarah write their own happy ending before a corporate nightmare destroys them and rewrites the town's charm?
Chapter 1 - "Prepare for Landing"
I'm Sarah Lawson.
Our 777 jet liner swings violently as it touches down at San Francisco International Airport, the wheels hydroplaning across the rain slick runway.
There are no reverse thrusters! The familiar lurch of braking is missing. Somehow I know that we have no traction!
A collective cry ripples through the cabin as our nose jerks sideways the other direction, a jarring thud shaking the entire fuselage. The overhead bins rattle, a few popping open as loose items tumble to the floor, and fly to one side of the cabin.
That can only mean the whole fuselage has been violently twisted!
A baby wails from somewhere behind me.
My new husband, Hank grips my hand tightly, his knuckles white. He grabs me, heroically forcing his body directly in front of me to shield me from the impending crash. "Hold on."
The aircraft fishtails, sliding backward now, tires screeching, and then suddenly the wing dips. I feel the tilt in my stomach a split second before I feel the sickening jolt of metal scraping against pavement. A landing gear has surely collapsed. The cabin lights flicker, and for one terrifying moment, I think we're going to flip.
Then, with an ear-splitting groan of rubber and steel, the plane skids off the runway, plowing into the quiet wet grass alongside. The emergency lights flicker on as the aircraft finally grinds to a halt at a precarious angle, one wing dipped low, the other still high in the air. For a long second, there is nothing but stunned silence.
Incongruously, I think of my dear son at home, Jake. My dear friend and philosopher, Earl Winter. And Pastor Larimore. And Maggie. I pray I'll see them all again.
Then the Captain's voice comes through the speakers, far too calm for what just happened. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We've had a bit of an unusual landing. Please remain seated while the crew prepares for your exit via the two door chutes on our left side."
No way! Most everyone is already in the aisles, headed for exits!
The flight attendants spring into action, their voices urgent yet controlled. "Stay seated until instructed! Leave your luggage behind! Prepare for evacuation!"
The unmistakable whoosh of the exit doors opening fills the cabin, followed by the deployment of two inflatable emergency slides on the left side of the plane. The attendants begin ushering passengers toward the exits, directing them to jump and slide down.
Hank turns to me, his face set. "We'll be fine. You ready'"
I swallow, nodding. "Go first. I'll follow."
"Negative!!"
There is no fire. The torrential rain outside. There is little smoke. Within seconds, he's at the opening, pushing me unceremoniously through the door. I'm sliding effortlessly down. The blast of wind and sheets of rain send a shiver down my spine as I slide. The world blurs around me as I descend, my heart hammering in my chest.
I land with an ungraceful stumble, but Hank is right there behind me, catching me long before I can fall. Someone else is right behind him, almost too fast.
"Told you we'd be fine, You okay?" Hank shouts. I nod.
"Let's run this direction. The crew is taking care of everyone. They don't need us around here."
I let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline still surging through my veins. "Not sure I'll ever complain about a carnival bumper car ride again!"
There is still no fire, but four or five fire trucks arrive, ready to spray water and foam on the slightest spark. I've rarely seen this much rain!
The emergency lights from the vehicles flash in the evening, casting eerie red and white streaks across the soaked tarmac. A wing is bent upward at a crazy angle, twisted in a way that makes it clear this 777 Dreamliner will probably never get airborne again.
Now thoroughly soaked and partly frozen by Mother Nature, we walk slowly, miserably back to the wreckage in the downpour.
A steward hurriedly takes our names. Gives us one very welcome Fiji Airlines umbrella.
The Captain and Copilot are still over there by the nose. The Captain has his cap off. He's scratching his head. He starts berating the Copilot, so at least we know who messed up the landing: the Captain is, and for letting the Copilot land us!
It's still pouring rain terrifyingly.
I've heard of thunderstorm downbursts or something like that. Or, maybe the runway was just too rain-slick.
The air was certainly safer!
Reporters and videographers are there fast. Aggressively, two accost Hank. They have beach umbrellas.
"Why didn't you divert to Oakland or go into some holding pattern?"
"Not my job."
It certainly wasn't. Hank was only a passenger.
"Come on! The public deserves an answer."
Hank flares, uncharacteristically, "No, they do not. And you do not. I don't work for you!"
"Who do you work for' What airline' What's your name?" They must have picked on him because he's the largest person there, and he's wearing a blue blazer that could be mistaken for a pilot's uniform.
"John Wayne, movie actor, howdy Ma'am, Sir. No wait. Wayne's dead. Okay, James Arness, movie actor. No wait. He's dead, too. Okay, I'll be Duane Johnson, movie actor. No wait. He's probably Samoan. Not sure. I'm definitely not bald and not Samoan. I know. I'm Snoop Dogg. No wait. He's too skinny. Ya got me. I'm actually Shaquille O'Neal incognito. Pleased to meet ya, Ma'am, Sir."
He's just wasting their precious time.
I laugh. He's taller than any of those guys, except O'Neal.
"Obviously, another pilot from another airline, with no comment. This airplane looks destroyed. Miss? Your comment?"
It wasn't posed as a question, and that doesn't matter. I take Hank's clue and ignore the camera crew. Walk away to see if we can be of help to someone.
They leave our area. Hank says to me, "I'd talk to them, but I didn't see any news credentials. Small camera. Probably amateurs looking for a social media scoop."
There's still no fire and we're alive. That and the rest are obvious. We hope everyone else is okay. A stewardess comes down a chute. The crew are always the last to depart. Heroes, all.
More firefighters and emergency personnel swarm the scene, checking on passengers, getting us into vehicles. It's still drenching rain out.
The crew finishes a headcount, ensuring all are accounted for.
The real Captain, now standing near the emergency vehicles, speaks with officials before making the final announcement on a loudspeaker: "Ladies and gentlemen, I've just received confirmation that all passengers and crew are safe with only a couple of sprains and scrapes reported. Sorry about that terrible landing, folks. Not in the best tradition of Fiji Airlines. But we all lived through it. Thank you for your concern. Those of you who were to scheduled to fly on to Phoenix and Miami, well, as you can see, we'll have to make other accommodations for you at no charge. Courtesy of Fiji Airlines, of course."
Little Fiji Airlines had just lost one of their prized Dreamliners.
Some dazed passengers gather in the puddling grass as airport officials guide us toward buses that will take us to the terminal and drying out places. The whole ordeal, from the moment the plane touched down to now, has lasted maybe fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours.
A little luggage train collects our baggage. By the time we step into the bustling terminal, my nerves have mostly settled. There must be twenty reporters there wanting inside to know everything about the event. Hank and I spurn them all with curt hand waves.
Still shaky about 30 minutes later, we retrieve our luggage, still fending off reporters and video cameras around the luggage carousel. It's easy for them to identify us. We're still drenched!
"Almost home," Hank says, finally shouldering his bag and tugging my big wheelie. I have my carry-on bag.
"Home! You said that when we got ON that airplane in Fiji," I remind him.
