Excerpt from Happy Land by Dolen Perkins-Valdez, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

One

Nikki

The only thing I know about my grandmother's home is that it's in an isolated area of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Zirconia, North Carolina. And the only thing I know about Zirconia is that it's right outside Hendersonville. And what I know about Hendersonville is that it has a lot of apple orchards. A shame, I know.

The old 25 highway is two lanes without a line in the middle. I pass a wood-frame house that must be at least a hundred years old, a neat and tidy brick rambler with rockers lining the front porch. Stuffed fairies hang from tree limbs, and a motionless cat stares at me from a front yard.

I wind the rental car around a series of camp entrances. Camp Greystone. Camp Arrowhead. Houses on tall wooden piles perch around a sign labeled Lake Summit. Just a few miles past the lake, I pass the granite cliff Mother Rita mentioned over the phone, and just after that I reach the entrance to her property.

Lovejoy Lane.

When I was born, I was given my mama's maiden name hyphenated with Daddy's name-Lovejoy-Berry-in a gesture I'd always attributed to Mama's feminist pride. When I married Darius, I didn't change it. So seeing that Lovejoy sign does something to me. It looks official, as if the county provided it. I've never seen it before.

I'm almost forty years old, and this is my first time ever visiting my grandmother.

As I turn into the dirt drive I wonder how long my family has lived in this house. The siding is in need of a paint job, and the green shutters are faded and weather-beaten. I know Mama grew up here, and as I note its wide front porch and gabled roof, I imagine her, an only child, running down the front steps. It's morning, but the porch lamp is on, moth carcasses stuck to its dimly lit dome. I can't find a doorbell. I hesitate, then knock softly on the frame of the wooden screen door. A couple of minutes pass before I knock again.

Maybe she's asleep. The elderly do tend to keep their own hours.

Finally, the door opens and a tall lady with a shock of gray hair peers through the screen at me. "Yes?"

"Mother Rita?" I've always called her that, following Mama's lead.

"Veronica? I was expecting you later this evening."

"I'm sorry. They offered me a travel voucher, so I took a morning flight instead. I should have called."

"Yes, you should have." She pats her hair down.

Inside, the house is well kept-brighter and airier than I expected considering the condition of the exterior. Actually, I'm not sure what I expected, perhaps a dusty house filled with relics that haven't been moved in years. Instead, the rooms are sunny, cheerful. I spy a settee too delicate for sitting in the living room, a tarnished silver tea set on a sideboard in the dining room, a Persian rug too big for the space. Everything is old, worn to the threads, but it's clean.

Mother Rita wears a pair of jeans and a neat, collared shirt turned up at the elbows. Despite her unruly hair, she looks pretty, especially for seventy-eight years old. It feels like forever since I've seen her. Actually, it's been eight years. I remember because when my daddy died, Mother Rita drove all the way to D.C. for the funeral, only to turn around and drive home the next day.

"You ate yet?"

"Yes, ma'am," I respond politely, though the truth is that I'm starving.

She glances down at the rolling suitcase I've just parked in the middle of her living room. It's as if she can see everything at once-my uncertainty, my curiosity, my fear.

"Bathroom is down the hall on the left. When you've finished, I got some leftover navy beans from yesterday. I'll warm those up with a little corn bread?" She uses a questioning tone, but I know there is no need to answer. This is her extension of hospitality, and I'm grateful for it.

A fuzzy pink rug covers the bathroom floor, its matching cover on the toilet seat. Behind the shower curtain, fish tiles rim the walls. Above the towel bar hangs a faded picture of a young man dangling a fish between his hands. My grandfather passed away when I was in elementary school. I lean closer to better make out his features.

Excerpted from Happy Land by Dolen Perkins-Valdez. Copyright © 2025 by Dolen Perkins-Valdez. Excerpted by permission of Berkley Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.