Sweetgrass (13 page)

“I’m trembling with fear.”

“Really, Morgan, why are you doing this? If the money is tight and you’re losing sleep over it, maybe it’s time to throw in the towel. After all, it’s not like we’d be the only ones. Most folks can’t hold on to large tracts of land anymore. Times are changing.”

He sighed. “Right.”

“It’s not like you didn’t try.”

Morgan leaned back in the chair and laced his fingers on his belly. “It’s been weird going through all this shit,” he said, indicating the papers. “I never knew how hard Daddy tried to hang on to this place. He was…heroic. Talk about changing times. He must’ve tried everything he could think of to make this place earn money. Some of his schemes were pretty wild and woolly. Remember the fish farm?”

Nan burst out with a laugh. “Oh, Lord, I surely do. We lost a bundle on that one. And the tomatoes!”

“Then there were the cattle.”

“Come on,” she cajoled, trying not to laugh. “That one wasn’t so crazy. Granddaddy had cattle. And sheep.”

“They were dairy cows, by the way, but what’s the difference? They both lost money.” He laughed anew and asked, “Remember the solar-powered windmills?”

Nan recalled the rows of blades twirling in the breeze. “They were sure pretty to look at, though.”

“But they didn’t bring in one shiny dollar.”

“Aw, be fair,” Nan said. “All the funding dried up for alternative energy. That wasn’t Daddy’s fault, either.”

“No, I know. But according to Aunt Adele, if it wasn’t for her we’d be knee-deep in Angora goats right now!”

Nan burst out laughing, leaning against her brother’s shoulder as they howled. They weren’t making fun of their father so much as laughing at themselves. It felt good after so much tension.

“You know what’s weird to me?” she asked him, drying her eyes.

“What?”

“Everyone being home again.”

Their eyes met in understanding and she was pleased to see him nod.

“Even Nona. It’s kind of like old times,” she added.

“And not,” he chided.

“No,” Nan agreed on a long sigh. “It’s hard to see Daddy the way he is.”

Morgan rubbed his neck, then reached for the bottle. When he caught her staring, he paused with the bottle in the air. “Care for one?”

She frowned and said in a self-righteous manner, “No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He was pouring his glass when Nona stepped into the room.

“I thought that was your car in the driveway!” she exclaimed to Nan.

Nan crossed the room and placed a kiss on Nona’s cheek. She relished the scent of vanilla that always hung around Nona. When she pulled back she caught Nona glaring at Morgan.

“It’s a little early in the day for drinking bourbon,” Nona told him.

Nan looked over her shoulder with an I-told-you-so air.

“You put that poison down before you get so you aren’t any use to me,” Nona told him in a no-nonsense tone. “I
need you. And
you,
” she said to Nan, “to help me move some furniture into the attic. Kristina says that your daddy’s going to be up and around in a wheelchair and we have to make room. In fact, why don’t you give those two strapping boys of yours a call and tell them to hurry on over here? And when you’re done with that, I’ve got some yard work that needs doing and windows that need washing. That hound has slobbered on every one of your daddy’s windows so he can’t see a thing. Hurry up now. That sun isn’t going to wait for you!”

She gave them the what-for look they both remembered from their childhood that had always sent them running, then turned and headed out like a frigate at full sail.

Morgan set down the glass without touching a drop and pulled himself to his feet.

“Yeah, it sure seems like old times,” he said as he rounded the desk.

“I can’t wait to let her loose on my boys,” Nan said, chuckling as she reached for the phone.

A FEW NIGHTS LATER,
after the house was quiet, Mama June slipped into her robe and slippers. The gray flickering light of a television shone behind Morgan’s partially closed door. She crept soundlessly past and made her way down the stairs to Preston’s room.

Moonlight dappled the walls. Blackjack raised his head when she stepped in and, when he recognized her, his tail thumped like a metronome on the floor. After a moment, he rested his pendulous jaws back on his front paws.

Preston’s eyes were open and he waved her over to his side.

Mama June’s heart fluttered as she approached his bed, knowing why she’d come. It was ridiculous for her to feel so nervous, she told herself. Preston was her husband of nearly forty-seven years, yet she could not recall the last time they’d shared a bed.

These were not the confidences a woman her age shared with a woman Kristina’s age. So the young woman could not comprehend what she was asking when she told Mama June to
touch
her husband to communicate. Goodness, she and Preston hadn’t communicated like that in years!

She did love him, however. And though there were times she did not even like him, her commitment and her love was unwavering. Keeping this in the forefront of her mind, she tightened the sash of her robe and moved forward.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she told him, drawing near. “You can’t, either?”

He waved his hand to indicate no.

“Want some company?”

He blinked twice.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll sit right here,” she said, sidling up to the bed. “Next to you.”

His hand patted the mattress.

“Okay, scootch over,” she said, nudging his thigh.

His hand stilled and his gaze sharpened.

She could have bitten her tongue. That was the phrase she’d always used when she crawled back into their bed after getting up to tend the children, or after a row between them had sent her to the kitchen for a cup of hot milk, or if she couldn’t sleep. She sighed and gently placed a hand on his chest, then settled herself on the mattress beside him.

His gaze was fixed on her, questioning.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said to him. “That it’s been quite a while since we’ve shared a bed. Am I right?”

He merely looked on.

“I don’t remember when we started sleeping in separate rooms. Or even why, exactly. It probably wasn’t just one reason. More an accumulation of reasons, I suppose. They all seem insignificant now.” She paused. “Morgan figured it out
when he came home. He saw your things in Ham’s room and asked me about it. I told him it was for comfort.” She puffed out air in a short laugh. “I’m quite certain he didn’t buy it.”

The silence stretched between them accusingly. She took a deep breath, fighting the urge to give him a quick kiss good-night and retreat to the security of her bedroom.

Instead, she once again took hold of his hand, as though to anchor her to the spot.

“You have nice hands,” she told him, running a fingertip along his knuckles. “I’ve always thought so. Tapered nails like these are a sign of gentility, did you know that? Well, they are.

So is the longer second toe. Jesus had that, too. Or so they say. You wonder how anyone would know that, don’t you? I mean, you can’t imagine
that
would be written down in the Bible somewhere.” She laughed lightly at the notion.

Then, realizing she was running circles around what she’d come to say, she took a breath and started again.

“Your hands are strong, too. But you were never clumsy.

That always amazed me. How you could maneuver these long, callused fingers like a surgeon to pin the tiny, paper-thin wings of a butterfly in your collection. Or on the boat, how you could tie knots so quickly. And when the wind was picking up, how you’d reach up and move a lock of hair from my eyes, just so.” She shrugged slightly, blushing at the memory.

“It was a sweet gesture. I never thought much about it before.” She glanced shyly at him, hoping he’d read her feelings. “I don’t know why it took me so long to let Blackjack inside.

I can tell it matters to you. It took a stranger to point it out to me. I’m…I’m sorry, Preston. I should have been more mindful.”

His fingers patted her hand.

“It’s nice for me to see you with Blackjack again. Like old
times.” She paused to lick her lips. “I’ve been awash in old times today. Thinking of you. Of us.”

Tentatively she brought her hands to the buttons of his pajama shirt. She felt unsure of herself and her stomach was tied up in knots.

“Are you still having difficulty doing up your buttons?” she asked, filling the silence. “Show me. Try undoing one.”

He cast her a questioning glance but brought his left hand to his button. With only some difficulty, he undid it.

“Neatly done! How about a few more? For practice.”

He did the task with only minor stumbling. His eyes watched her and she could sense his wonderment and curiosity as to what she was up to. She knew he was far too cunning to fall for her lame excuse.

Feeling a bit like a lady of the night, she reached over to delicately slip the thin blue cotton open, exposing his chest. His skin was paler than she was used to seeing and the fine hairs covering his chest were mostly gray. But the conformation of muscle and the curve of bone were as familiar to her touch as her own. Hesitatingly, she ran her hands through the hair, relishing the softness of it against her palms. His chest rose up and down in a steady rhythm.

“This feels real nice, doesn’t it? It’s been a long time since my hands have lain against your chest like this. I can’t even remember the last time. Can you?”

He blinked once.

“Me, neither.”

Then, with a deep breath, she gathered her courage and said, “But I can remember the first time…”

She was nineteen and a woman of leisure.

So Mary June Clark told Adele Blakely as they motored south down the highway from Converse College headed for
sun, the beach and, hopefully, boys. College was out for the summer and the two roommates planned on spending the first two weeks of vacation doing nothing in the least bit productive.

Music roared from their open windows as they passed school buses and slow-moving pickups filled with crates of tomatoes. But whenever they passed a car with cute boys, Adele beeped the horn of her Mercury and they waved and called out hellos, giggling wildly when the boys honked and hollered back. The roommates made quite a pair, and they were well aware of the attention they attracted whenever they were together.

Mary June’s beauty was delicate, like the wildflowers she loved. Her large, cornflower-blue eyes shone soft against pale skin. She was petite with a tiny waist and blond hair cut in waves that fell to her shoulders in the same fashion as the actress she was most often compared to, Sandra Dee. It was a comparison that her friends thought a great compliment but that Mary June always chafed under. She’d rather be compared to someone daring rather than doe-ish. Someone like Kate Hepburn.

As Adele was. Slender and tanned with glossy brown hair cut short in a bob, Adele had dark-brown eyes that shone with a confidence that was both attractive and intimidating. The two women were roommates by fate, friends by choice. This summer sojourn at the school year’s end was seen by them as the culmination of a smashing freshman year.

They were done with boring lectures delivered in sweltering classrooms, greasy cafeteria food, endless late-night cramming for exams and early morning classes. Eisenhower was president of a nation at peace, the economy was looking up, the weather was glorious and they’d just finished exams. The world was their oyster, as someone they’d studied in English class once wrote!

As Adele’s red Mercury chewed up miles of country road,
the girls nibbled Moon Pies, drank Coke and smoked cigarettes that Adele had smuggled in her purse. They were headed for summer and Sweetgrass.

Mary June was secretly apprehensive about her trip to Adele Blakely’s home. Adele was from an established Charleston family. Her roots went way back—as did the memories of most old Charleston families. Mary June’s own family went respectably far back, as well. Her ancestors had died in defense of the Confederacy. Her uncle William still donned the gray whenever there was a reenactment in the Sumter area. But though the Clark family currently owned and farmed more land than the Blakelys now did, the Clarks had never owned a true plantation nor had the rich history associated with their name that the Blakelys had. The Blakelys belonged to an exclusive order of Charleston society, and no amount of wealth or land could buy into that pedigree.

Adele had eased her mind, however, when she’d airily told Mary June that the Blakelys no longer walked in tall cotton. They both knew it was a sore reality to Adele that Mary June’s allowance was considerably more generous than Adele’s.

As the afternoon grew late, their excitement bubbled when they reached the small town of Mount Pleasant. Mary June spotted the rickety stands of the sweetgrass baskets alongside the road and remembered the time years before when she’d driven north to Myrtle Beach with her mother.

“Adele, stop!” she exclaimed, stretching her neck far out the window. Her blond hair whipped her shoulders as she leaned out, pointing to one wooden stand with dozens of baskets hanging from hooks. It nestled in the shade of a sprawling live oak and she recognized it as the one she’d stopped at before. Mary June still had that little basket her mama had bought her and had taken it to college with her.

“Why, that might could be the same woman. Stop the car, Adele! I want to buy another basket!”

“Sugar, we can stop for a basket any ol’ time,” Adele shouted back over the music. “Let’s keep on going. We’re not that far away from home. I’m hungry, thirsty and I’m just dying to pee.”

Mary June fell back against her seat, scowling with disappointment. Adele could be so bossy sometimes. Casting her a sidelong glance, she felt the urge to prick her pride a bit.

“Mama says you shouldn’t say that,” she said, pushing her hair from her eyes. “It’s not ladylike. Mama always says she has to powder her nose instead.”

Adele flashed a wicked smile. “Well, my daddy says he has to piss like a racehorse.”

Both girls burst out laughing and Adele pressed the accelerator a little more.

“There it is,” Adele exclaimed a short while later, slowing the car and flicking on her blinker. “At last!” She squirmed on the seat. “If I can just hold it a little longer…”

Mary June’s breath hitched as she leaned over and searched the seemingly impenetrable wall of tall, spindly pines that bordered the highway. She spotted a narrow break where a dirt road wound at an angle from the pines to the big road. It led to a large black wrought-iron gate, and over it, a word was fashioned in scrolled black ironwork.

Her heart beat loudly under her pink cotton blouse and pearls. She licked her lips as she read the word
Sweetgrass.

“Blast,” Adele cursed as she yanked the emergency brake. “The gate’s closed.”

“I’ll get it.”

“No, it’s like a secret handshake. Blast,” she swore again, yanking open the car door. “Just hold on a minute.”

Her flats made prints in the soft dirt as she ran to the gate. As she fiddled with the lock, Adele hopped in a jig from foot
to foot. Then she pushed open the gates and ran knock-kneed back to the car, slamming the door shut. Pushing back the sweaty hair from her face, she released the brake and roared forward.

“You’d think one of my lazy, good-for-nothin’ brothers could have managed to open the gate for us. It’s not like they didn’t know we were coming. I don’t know why it was closed. Tripp probably did it on purpose, just to rile me.”

Mary June didn’t reply. Adele was mostly muttering to herself, anyway, and she suspected the ill-fated brothers would soon be on the receiving end of a skin-searing verbal lashing.

Mary June looked out the window, captivated by what she spied just beyond the shaded drive. She was a farmer’s daughter and appreciated the hours of labor involved in the maintenance of the orderly peach orchard they passed. Farther in the distance she spotted a dozen or so cattle grazing in the scrubby grass and beyond, the lush, mysterious swamp marsh.

When Adele turned onto the avenue of oaks, however, the farm girl’s practical perusal slipped away. In the space of a gulped breath, she was just one more of the countless visitors entranced by the romantic and picturesque vision of a plantation house at the end of an alley of massive live oaks dripping with lacy Spanish moss.

The history and legends she’d read about at school or heard at her daddy’s knee swirled in her mind, painting a rosy aura around the colonial house that sat prettily at the end of the lane. While her heart pounded in her chest, her mind was in the clouds, thrilled that she was so fortunate to be actually staying here, in this historical house.

And yet, as they made their way up along what was once an old carriage path, then circled around a small black pond
in front of the house, she knew a moment’s surprise and perhaps even a vague disappointment.

The house was much smaller than she’d expected. As a Southerner, she was well aware that not all plantation houses were the grand antebellum mansions made famous in photographs and movies. Many were charming, relatively modest dwellings, once the country houses of the landed gentry who spent most of their time in their grand city houses. Yet, even by those standards, Sweetgrass was small.

But beguiling. The white house had two fluted pillars under a curved portico and a narrow front porch that opened to a wide, welcoming staircase. On either side were one-story additions that added breadth and balance.

Adele rounded the circle then stopped the car in front of the house so abruptly, Mary June had to brace herself against the dash.

“Gotta dash or I’m going to have an embarrassing accident!” Adele called out as she pushed open her door and scrambled from the car. She rushed around the hood and made a beeline up the stairs of the house.

Mary June blinked when the front screen slammed. She sat for a moment, still feeling the rolling of the wheels in her veins. Within a few minutes, the close heat sweltered inside the car. She leaned against the door, and with one step she was enveloped in the scented air of the Lowcountry.