by Cathy Gohlke
“Might be. Miz Hyacinth’s got no other kin, far as I know.”
“None but Rosemary, who ran off as a girl. Though I heard she’s up and died not but a couple weeks ago. And didn’t she have a daughter?”
“Rosemary died? Where’d you hear that?”
Ida Mae rose to her full height with self-importance. “Never you mind. Just heard it, is all.”
But Celia knew. Ida Mae’s first daughter, Ophelia, worked at the switchboard that served all of No Creek and Ridgemont and Trent, down the road. What information Ida Mae didn’t catch on the street, in the church, or at the general store, she learned from Ophelia’s “tele-Mama.”
Celia finished sweeping and tucked the broom in the corner. So taken with this new information was she that she nearly forgot her peppermint stick.
On the way home she muddled over all she’d heard. Miz Hyacinth’s bringing Garden’s Gate back to its former glory. Does she mean to sell? Who’d buy in these times? Does she think she’s going to live a long while, maybe even regain her eyesight, that she wants everything fixed up so? Or is Miss Grace goading her on, thinking she’ll inherit it all, like Ida Mae said? That didn’t ring true. Miss Grace didn’t seem the greedy type. But just what type was she? Must not have a penny to her name. She’s still wearin’ that tweed skirt, though it looks like Miz Hyacinth’s too-big sweater on top now.
Celia’s mama had often said you can’t count too much on family; they’re like to let you down. And how was Miss Grace actually related to Miz Hyacinth, after all? And what about Rosemary dying? Celia had heard of Rosemary—a pretty woman a few years older than Celia’s mama whose running off had near broke Miz Hyacinth’s heart, long before Celia was born. The story went that Miz Hyacinth raised Rosemary like her own child after Camellia—Rosemary’s mama, Miz Hyacinth’s sister—and her husband died in a car accident. So how was it that Miss Grace showed up within days of Miz Rosemary’s demise? Demise was a new word for Celia’s growing list, one she’d found in the obituaries, and she favored using it. There was more to this mystery all the time, which suited Celia just fine.
Chapter Ten
I FUMED ON MY WAY UP THE ROAD to Garden’s Gate. The nerve of that woman, implying impropriety on Olney Tate’s part and lack of discernment on Aunt Hyacinth’s! Olney and his nephew had proven the picture of deference and decorum to the point that it made me nervous and rather chagrined at my own consciousness of the color of their skin—especially since I’d grown up with Sarah, nearly a second mother to me.
I slowed my steps. But was I any better than Ida Mae? Was I mad because she’d dared to question Olney Tate or because she’d dared to question me? Why was it so hard to discern my own motives?
I’d never considered such distinct racial lines drawn in Philadelphia, supposedly “the city of brotherly love,” though I’d known few people outside my white church—which taught that people of color were marked for Ham’s punishment, the son of Noah who’d mocked his father’s nakedness. My church taught that slavery had been the consequence for that sin. It never sounded right to me, never sounded like something God would do.
No longer under my father’s or Gerald’s thumb, I vowed in that moment to better notice, to think for myself, and to respect all good people—colored or white. I needed to be part of a better way, not part of the same old problem.
What struck me more than the color of his skin was the hunger and wonder in the eyes of Olney’s nephew, Marshall Raymond, as he took in Aunt Hyacinth’s library for the first time.
“All those books!” Marshall had whistled, slipping his hat from his head with the reverence one might offer in a great cathedral. “Never in my life did I think I’d see so many books in one place.” He’d stood in the middle of the grand room and turned slowly, taking in every floor-to-ceiling shelf.
His wonder made Aunt Hyacinth smile. “The Belvidere library began with volumes brought from across the sea—years before the Revolution. Each generation has added to this largesse. I did all I could, until I could no longer see to read—or write to order. I miss that.”
It was certainly an impressive room and an even more impressive collection.
“One day it will be yours, Grace. You’ll keep the tradition alive, I hope.”
I smiled and squeezed her arm affectionately. It seemed there was nothing more exciting to Aunt Hyacinth than to think of bequeathing all those books and Garden’s Gate to me.
I already loved Garden’s Gate. I loved its library. I couldn’t help but be moved—and terrified. To be given such a gift . . . the knowledge of such a hope for my future thrilled me beyond belief.
But I knew that the moment Gerald found me and learned of this gift, it would disappear. He’d sell off every book, every antique, every family memento and the house and grounds before finding a way to rid himself of me.
No, I wouldn’t say it in front of Marshall, but Aunt Hyacinth couldn’t make me her heir and hope to keep anything in the family. And it would all come out when the legal process began. I knew that much. I wouldn’t be able to forge my name on a deed and have it stick. There was no Grace Belvidere, and Lilliana Grace Swope was nothing and nobody, especially to my husband. Aunt Hyacinth, you must simply live forever and let us enjoy this life together!
I’d never known such freedom or been given such responsibility as Aunt Hyacinth gave me. She trusted me implicitly with work and decorating choices and with her money. I second-guessed myself time and again and in the end quizzed Aunt Hyacinth and asked Gladys Percy each time I saw her what she thought about this color or that fabric from Aunt Hyacinth’s storehouse of old decorating fabrics.
More and more Gladys became a trusted friend. Aunt Hyacinth increased her hours at Garden’s Gate, relieving me to work full-time on the redecorating and coordinating with Olney Tate about work on the grounds and the painting of the house.
I only wished I could tell Gladys my real name, confide in her at least that I was Aunt Hyacinth’s grandniece and that my mama was Rosemary. The terrible ache of losing Mama and Sarah in one day was still so raw. I’d told Aunt Hyacinth about Sarah, and she seemed to truly understand. Still, I needed more, to share my grief beyond. It was such an overwhelming part of me. But trusting—confiding in anyone else—felt all too risky.
Chapter Eleven
IT WAS WEDNESDAY, time for Jesse’s next visit with Miz Hyacinth. There was no new letter from across the pond, but they could have tea and some of Gladys’s pecan cookies and play Miz Hyacinth’s Victrola—maybe the Caruso records she was partial to. Perhaps he’d play the piano for her before he read today’s devotional from My Utmost for His Highest. It was the weekday and visit that he looked forward to most. He hurried up the hill toward Garden’s Gate.
For the four years of his pastoring, Jesse had been besought with casseroles and Sunday dinners and strong suggestions that any one of the fair daughters among the congregation might make him a fine wife. For those four years he’d managed to carefully dodge overt offers and still maintain the goodwill of the congregation. Not once had he been tempted or interested, not even when Joe Earl had slipped a little ’shine in the clogging party punch after a community working to raise Grady Wilson’s barn and Grady had all but shoved his youngest daughter into Jesse’s arms.
It wasn’t that the maiden ladies of No Creek were ugly—far from it. But Jesse had been sent away to finish school and college and then on to seminary in Kentucky. He’d encountered the world and books and new ideas about old thoughts. He’d learned to read music and to play the piano, though the church in No Creek had none. Now he longed for music, for art and literature and a companion to share the love of those things. He’d met no one in No Creek who might fill that longing or share those passions of a winter’s evening by the fire.
Jesse had grown up dancing and still tapped his toes as readily as anyone when Joe Earl picked up a fiddle. He could clog with the best—fancy or Appalachian flat-footed—though even clogging was frowned upon by Baptist past
ors and forbidden by his professors in seminary.
Truth be told, he wouldn’t mind dancing arm in arm with a woman—the waltz, or even a foxtrot, though a minister of the gospel in the Baptist church dare not say such a thing. But would it be so bad if you were married to the woman? He could imagine that it would not, not if you did it in the privacy of your home and it didn’t get back to the congregation.
But Jesse had found no such soul mate in No Creek. Miz Hyacinth, though a kindred spirit, was more the grandmother he’d always imagined, always wished for—and for that relationship, he was thankful.
He’d all but given up thinking he’d find a woman in No Creek who would make his pulse race and his head spin, a woman with whom he could share the music that gave him joy, the books that perplexed and inspired his mind, a woman who might fill the empty places in his heart. Now someone made to order from his imagination had appeared, and he could think of little else. Dancing seemed more appealing than it had in years.
He’d just opened the front door and was about to call out his usual greeting when he heard Miz Hyacinth’s raised voice.
“I told you she’s not here. Yes, she stopped to tell me of her mother’s death—a death that apparently was helped along by her father’s mistreatment. But she’s gone now, terrified you would track her down, thanks to your hateful ways. You call yourself a man of God, a pillar and elder of the church, and yet you have violated our Lord’s own commandment to love your wife. So heed His warning: ‘But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea!’
“You’ve grievously offended your own wife, caused my Lilliana to stumble, to believe God doesn’t love her. You well know what the Bible says about those who oppress. You had a wife of the finest caliber, a jewel in any man’s crown, and you mistreated her. The rose of our family, and you crushed her. It’s no wonder she ran away.
“What? . . . If she’d asked me, yes, I would have helped her, but she did not, and she’s gone. I’ll thank you to never call me again. Even though she has not publicly called you out for your wickedness, remember that I have no such hesitancy should I ever hear that you have tormented her further.”
The telephone receiver slammed into its cradle. It evidently missed the spot, for Jesse heard her wriggling the receiver to fit its nest.
Jesse had never heard Miz Hyacinth so worked up, and though he knew he shouldn’t have listened, he couldn’t imagine whom she was talking about. To his knowledge the only strangers who’d come to No Creek within the last several months were Grace and Marshall, Olney Tate’s nephew.
But he couldn’t stand in the doorway and he couldn’t back out without Miz Hyacinth hearing him. So he called out, more quietly than usual, “Miz Hyacinth! It’s Reverend Willard. Are you ready for company?”
She didn’t answer, so he closed the door and walked into the front parlor, where his friend sat, trembling.
“Miz Hyacinth, how can I help you?” He knelt before her, taking her hands in both of his.
She shook her head, choking back sobs. He’d never seen her this way. Not before her stroke or even after, when blindness and the county had forced her to retire, intending to incorporate No Creek’s two-room schoolhouse into the larger school system to save county funds.
“Oh, Reverend, I’ve never complained to the Lord about my blindness, never taken it as anything but His will for these years of my life. But I’m complaining now. I’m angry and resentful of this old body that can’t do a thing for someone I love dearly, someone who needs protection and care.”
It wasn’t the first time in his pastoring that Jesse had no words. How does a man answer for almighty God when he doesn’t know His mind and can’t fathom His ways? When he doesn’t even know the circumstances of a person and is reluctant to pry? But there was power in prayer; that he did know. And that he could do.
“Father in heaven, holy above all, Creator and Sovereign, faithful and wise and true, we come to You now with the heartache and sorrow, the fear and longing, even the anger of my friend, Sister Hyacinth. We’re beyond knowing what to do or even how to release that anger born of fear for her loved one. Protect that dear one, Lord. Lead her to safe haven and thwart those who would practice evil against her. Give my dear friend peace, Lord, in knowing You are at the helm of this ship and that You will steer this loved one safely to port. May Your will be done. May we be instruments in Your hands for peace and blessing and to help those in need. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen.”
“Amen,” Miz Hyacinth whispered at last. It took long minutes while Jesse knelt, stroking her hands until she breathed more evenly, before she squeezed his hands in thanksgiving and her old smile returned, if weary and crooked.
He stood, pressing a kiss against her weathered cheek. “How about I make us some tea?” Tea and time to sit with a friend were the answers for many of life’s ills and grievous moments. Miz Hyacinth had taught him that, and Jesse had grown convinced of it.
Miz Hyacinth nodded, still unable to speak.
Jesse was glad to busy himself in Miz Hyacinth’s big kitchen. Even for its cavernous size, the kitchen had always seemed a homey place, if not as well-kept and clean as it might have been in recent years. But now the kitchen sparkled. The windows sparkled, and there was genuine crystal sitting on the counter, catching the afternoon sun and sparkling, too.
It looked as if all the cupboards had been emptied and scrubbed, the shelves lined with fresh paper and the task of returning things to their places interrupted. The work of Gladys Percy and Grace Belvidere, he was sure of it. But where were those women? Miz Hyacinth had lived alone for years, but he didn’t like to think of her alone now, not today of all days.
While waiting for the kettle to boil, he stared out the window. There, in the far end of the garden, he glimpsed a dark-blue shape with a gray topknot, bent over, intent on something in the soil. Granny Chree. He smiled and raised his hand in greeting, hoping to beckon her to the kitchen. He hadn’t seen or spoken with the old woman in months. He’d like to now, like to ask her wisdom and remedy for her old friend and charge, Miz Hyacinth, but he couldn’t leave Miz Hyacinth alone to go out to her. Just as quickly as he thought these things, Granny Chree disappeared, likely into the woods beyond, but reinforcing his belief that she wasn’t quite of this earth. Another time, Granny. Another time.
Jesse stirred the tea in a pot he found on the counter and poured a pitcher of cream he found sitting in the icebox. Miz Hyacinth didn’t usually take sugar, but he placed the bowl on the tray anyway. A little something extra seemed needed now. That was the kind of advice he was sure Granny Chree might give.
Ten minutes later he poured tea for his friend, stirred in sugar and cream, and handed her the cup and saucer. Her hands had stopped trembling.
“What you must think of me, Reverend,” Miz Hyacinth lamented.
“Highly, as I ever thought. It only concerns me that someone could have grieved you so. I know you’re a good judge of character. Perhaps your counsel will stand the man in good stead.”
“I’m not sure it was counsel so much as threat.”
“There is that. Where is Grace?”
Miz Hyacinth’s color rose and her hand almost dropped her teacup. “She took the train to do a bit of shopping for us.”
“She’ll be back tonight?”
“Yes. Why?” Miz Hyacinth sounded nervous—threatened, even. It wasn’t like her.
“I’m just glad she’ll be here with you. It seems timely—providential, surely—that she’s come now. I think she’s done you a world of good. You seem more chipper than I can remember—well, generally.” He tried to infuse a smile into his voice. “And Garden’s Gate looks better than I’ve seen it since I was a boy.”
Miz Hyacinth gave a half smile, though genuine. “That’s my intention. I want it perfect—perfect as it can be for Grace.” She leaned forward. “I’m hopi
ng she’ll stay on, you know. I’m hoping she’ll stay forever, even after I’m gone. But she’ll have things to work out. She’ll need all the friends and help possible. Will you be a friend to her, Reverend Willard?”
“You know you can count on me. I’d like to see her stay. I’d like that very much.”
Miz Hyacinth sat back, apparently relieved. “Now, about our devotional. What does our friend say today?”
He ignored the marker in their book and flipped to March 30—a passage he knew well and needed himself today. It was too easy to tell God what was needed, rather than to worship Him and leave the workings of another’s life to Him.
“‘And He . . . wondered that there was no intercessor.’—Isaiah 59:16.
“Worship and intercession must go together, the one is impossible without the other. Intercession means that we rouse ourselves up to get the mind of Christ about the one for whom we pray. Too often instead of worshipping God, we construct statements as to how prayer works. Are we worshipping or are we in dispute with God—‘I don’t see how You are going to do it.’ This is a sure sign we are not worshipping. When we lose sight of God we become hard and dogmatic. We hurl our petitions at God’s throne and dictate to Him as to what we wish Him to do. . . .
“Be the one who worships God and who lives in holy relationship to Him. Get into the real work of intercession, and remember it is a work that taxes every power; but a work which has no snare.”
“Yes!” Miz Hyacinth reached for Jesse’s hand. He grasped hers warmly, firmly, understanding all that words could not convey.
Chapter Twelve
I’D NEVER SO ENJOYED the wonder of shopping and never gleaned such headache from the responsibility of shopping for another—or for me. Wrestling two large wallpaper sample books and several brown paper packages of clothing purchases, I boarded the afternoon train in Winston-Salem and settled back in the seat. No Creek’s platform stop was hours away but would come soon enough.
