“He’ll be here,” Violet says, a dash of hopefulness in her voice.
In the distance, the white tent is filled with seventy-five family members and friends. All of them waiting and shifting in their seats. The young priest looks in Queenie’s direction as though wondering what he should do without a groom standing beside him. For sixty years Queenie has imagined being a bride and walking down the aisle. If Spud leaves her stranded at the altar, at least she will have this moment in the spotlight. Or in this case, the sun.
Queenie motions for the priest to start. He pauses, giving her a look that says, Are you sure? She repeats her let’s get this show on the road hand motion. The young priest gives a brief shrug before asking everyone to stand. Family and guests turn in her direction, and Violet kisses Queenie on the cheek. Queenie takes a deep breath and holds Old Sally’s arm. Then the two of them walk down the porch steps to where a sheath of white paper leads the way down the walkway through the dunes to the beach.
Queenie decided that there would be no music at the wedding. The sound of the waves would serenade her down the aisle. But that was a mistake. She wants to hear “Here Comes the Bride” or the “Alleluia” chorus. Something to mark such a momentous occasion. In an instant, the wedding she dreamed of is ruined, with no music and no groom.
Old Sally squeezes Queenie’s arm as if sensing her growing upset. They begin their slow procession. “It be all right, child,” she says. “Enjoy this. It’s your day.”
Queenie wonders if she is about to be stood up at the altar by the one person in the world she thought incapable of bailing on her. An undertow of grief threatens to pull her beneath the waves.
Suddenly she hears the notes of a familiar melody.
A splash of purple rises from the dunes as Spud emerges, playing his saxophone. It is a jazz rendition of “Here Comes the Bride.” The beauty of his playing brings joyful tears to Queenie’s eyes. She has cried more today than she has in ages.
Queenie wipes her tears with the yellow scarf tied around her neck, beaming a smile toward the dunes. Spud nods his saxophone in her direction. The melody soars.
As she approaches the tent, all the guests smile at Queenie as if she is the most beautiful bride in the world. Most have tears in their eyes, too. Queenie has never heard Spud play better. After Iris broke off their relationship, he didn’t play saxophone for decades and disbanded his jazz quartet. It was only after Iris died that he started playing again.
Iris.
Queenie looks at the sky, expecting angry clouds to greet her, but the day remains clear. A perfect day for a wedding. The hurricane named after her nemesis has stayed away. Her groom has returned. There is music. Queenie’s day will not be ruined.
Queenie and Old Sally join the sandaled priest down front, who looks like he might pull out a guitar and sing “Kumbaya” at any moment. Thankfully, Queenie prefers jazz. Spud ends his solo. A rush of purple approaches, and he hands his saxophone to his brother in the front row, who looks like a plump version of Spud with a blond toupée. The young priest who buried Iris invites Old Sally to join him at the front.
Spud and Queenie stand side by side, and Queenie steals a look at her intended. Not only does he play a wicked saxophone, but she loves him with her whole heart.
More tears fill Queenie’s eyes, making her grateful for waterproof mascara. Tears that signal a new chapter in her life. A life that a few years ago she could have never imagined would include this much happiness. Or this much purple.
CHAPTER TEN
Old Sally
An image emerges from the past. It is what Old Sally does these days. Remember things. She patches together memories to create a picture of her life. At ten years of age, Queenie wore one of Old Sally’s white slips on her head like a wedding veil and walked with great pomp and circumstance down the hallway to the kitchen. Like many little girls, she dreamed of this day. Fifty years later it is finally happening.
Celebrations are as necessary as the air she breathes. Katie stands near the front of the gathering practically busting with another celebration to come.
Death can be a celebration, too, Old Sally thinks. A celebration of a life lived fully.
Old Sally stands at the front facing Queenie, Spud, and the gathering of guests. Goosebumps climb her arms. A signal that a spirit is near. She senses her grandmother in attendance. A woman who passed to the other side many years ago. A strong woman in a long line of strong women stretching into the present day.
A chuckle rises from somewhere deep inside her. Old Sally should have known her grandmother would attend. For years she taught Old Sally the Gullah secrets as Old Sally is now teaching Violet.
To begin the ceremony, Old Sally welcomes everyone and then asks them to stand. Violet joins her at the front and begins to sing an old Gullah spiritual. The song is about how the Gullah people rode the water to this place and how the water will take them home. It is the tempo of a slow walk along the beach. A walk through all the ages that their people have lived here.
Guests sway to Violet’s singing, including the young priest from the all-white Catholic church in Savannah. For a time, it resembles a revival meeting instead of a wedding. Old Sally remembers her first love and imagines him playing his fiddle in the dunes, as Spud played his saxophone. For several moments her vision blurs with tears.
In between the verses, Violet leads them on the refrains.
This is how it should be, Old Sally tells herself. It’s Violet’s time to lead.
Old Sally looks beyond the guests to her grandmother watching from the edge of the dunes, nodding and clapping with the passing of the mantle. Old Sally has done her part to not let the traditions die out. So many of their young people have moved away from the island—distracted and enticed by modern times. However, some will return, and some will stay.
Old Sally is reminded of the gathering outside the Temple mansion as the fire raged on. Violet’s voice uplifted them in the darkest times. It can bring people closer together in the best of times, too.
In her imagination, Old Sally is transported to another time. A time far away when her ancestors first arrived on this island and named it after the dolphins frequently seen along the coast. She imagines other weddings taking place on this beach, weddings in the past and in the future. When Violet stops singing the guests are silent. Only the waves are heard. Waves from thirty feet away. Waves that sing the ebb and flow of life.
“You must remember the live oaks that grace this coastline,” Old Sally begins, her voice clear. “Their roots join under the earth. Now Queenie and Spud be joined, too. The roots of their families now merge. Each of us merges with all Creation. The Creator blesses Queenie and Spud’s union because of the genuine love here. This is all you can hope for in this life. To be blessed by love.”
Old Sally looks at her grandmother, and for a moment sees a faint reflection of herself standing next to her.
The ceremony continues, and Old Sally steps aside for the priest to say the traditional vows to make Queenie and Spud’s marriage official in the eyes of the law.
Queenie and Spud say, “I do,” and kiss.
Gullah has mixed with Christianity over the years, adding another layer to the story of Old Sally’s people. Most of those who stayed on the island now go to the island church that worships both Jesus and the tides. These are people who believe in the earth’s seasons and in the resurrection. Water is central to both faiths.
Finally, the priest takes a step back and leaves Old Sally in front to say the final words.
“Ritual be what unites us all,” she begins. “Ritual anchors us to this place and time. With love in place, there be no room for hatred. Love will save us.”
Queenie and Spud stand holding hands with their heads bowed, as do all their family and friends, including Old Sally’s grandmother in the dunes.
“May we be a lighthouse for each other through every storm,” she says, realizing this is not something she had planned to say. Then sh
e looks at Queenie and Spud and adds: “May you spread your joy to all who meet you. May you stay safe from harm and honor your ancestors. May you love each other for the rest of your days.”
Violet says, “Amen,” and the guests respond with the same. With Violet leading, they call and respond several times, tossing “Amen” across the tent among all those gathered. Laughter and clapping end the ceremony.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rose
Never has Rose seen a more colorful bride and groom. Queenie with her white wedding dress, red hat, yellow scarf, and purple pumps. Spud with his purple suit, white shirt, and purple-and-green bow tie. Nor has she ever seen a happier couple.
The wedding reception is at the house and in full swing. Violet is busy refilling different serving dishes.
“Let me do that,” Rose says. “You don’t work for the Temples anymore.”
Rose seldom thinks of herself as a Temple, though she kept the name after she married, as her mother did. Maybe she is more of a Temple than she thinks.
“Don’t be silly,” Violet says. “I’m good at this.”
Violet seems more confident since she started her tea shop a few months ago. Is this what happens when someone finds their true calling? If so, Rose needs to start painting again. Every day that she doesn’t, she disappoints herself. But now that Queenie’s wedding is over, she plans to get out her easel and paints and set up in the small light-filled studio at the back of their cottage.
The last time Rose mingled was after her mother’s funeral, when Savannah’s upper crust was paying their last respects and reshuffling the old Savannah power structure.
Rose raises a glass of tonic water with lime, minus the vodka, for an imaginary toast.
Rest in peace, Mother.
Across the room, Old Sally is showing signs of weariness. The priest is unusually talkative, so Rose crosses the room to rescue her. If Old Sally is one of the hundred-year-old live oak trees on the island, the young priest is a sapling.
“Excuse me, Father, can I borrow Old Sally for a moment?” Rose asks.
He offers a brief Kumbaya smile and then pivots to the next listener.
Old Sally holds onto Rose’s arm like she is clinging to a life raft. “He kept asking me how all of us could possibly live in this house together without being at each other’s throats. You would think a priest would believe in harmony.”
Rose agrees. They walk down the hallway toward Old Sally’s room, the noise fading as they get farther away from the party. Her bedroom is simple. A bed. A chair. One dresser. Perfectly neat. A knot of “five finger” grass hangs on the bedpost, meant for restful sleep. A large window faces the ocean, with a windowsill filled with seashells. Old Sally collects on her walks. One corner holds a piece of driftwood that was the base of an old tree. While Queenie’s room is full of color, Old Sally’s is the color of the beach. Almost no separation exists between her bedroom and the sand and dunes.
Rose helps Old Sally take off her sandals and lift her legs onto the bed. She lies back onto her pillow and lets out a long sigh.
“I was saving all my energy for the wedding,” Old Sally says. “Now I be like a balloon that’s lost all its air.”
“You rest for a while, and you’ll feel much better,” Rose says. She gently massages Old Sally’s hands as Old Sally did for her when she was getting her ready for bed as a girl. She traces Old Sally’s lifeline and the veins on the backs of her hands. Then Rose moves to the end of the bed and massages Old Sally’s feet, something she has taken up doing since she has lived here. Old Sally thanks her, her eyes closed. The tops of her feet are the color of leather, the bottoms the color of sand. Cool, wrinkled, and sandpapery dry. Feet that have been walking the earth for over a hundred years. Millions of steps. Walking. Running. Dancing. And at one time, skipping and jumping.
No wonder she’s tired, Rose thinks, grateful that she can give back to this woman who gave her so much.
With every second that passes, Rose is more aware that a stranger is coming to the island. A stranger who claims to be Edward’s daughter, her brother being the one person in her family she wishes she could forget ever existed.
“Edward’s child be almost here,” Old Sally says, not opening her eyes.
This is the second time today that Rose has thought Old Sally was reading her thoughts. Is Rose that transparent?
“How did you know that Edward’s daughter was coming today?”
“I forget,” Old Sally says.
“Should I be concerned about her?” Rose asks.
“Too soon to know for sure.”
Rose covers Old Sally with a light blanket from the end of the bed and watches her fall asleep.
When she returns to the living room, Max is greeting a stranger at the door. Upon seeing Heather for the first time, Rose emits a slight gasp. Heather looks like a younger version of Rose’s mother. The same upturned nose. The same hair color, though Heather’s is long. The same ramrod-straight posture and overture of entitlement. She is dressed like the Junior League version of a Jehovah’s Witness. Heather’s blue eyes narrow when Rose approaches the door. No DNA evidence is needed. The resemblance is immediate. Heather is not only her brother’s child but her mother’s grandchild.
They introduce themselves. Heather’s gaze burrows into Rose, before looking around as if to assess the value of the house.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Heather says, though she doesn’t seem to mind. “I guess that’s what I get for not calling first. I got your address from Regina.”
“Yes, Regina called me.”
“She did?” Heather’s look of surprise appears rehearsed, or maybe Rose imagines it.
“I don’t know Regina very well,” Rose begins. “I met her once for a short time last year, and we’ve talked briefly on the phone. She called me this morning to say you were on your way.”
Heather nods like someone who has practiced a speech for hours and now must skip several note cards ahead to find a new place to start. A crack in the façade?
“I didn’t know you were having a party,” Heather says, which feels genuine.
“It’s actually a wedding,” Rose answers. She starts to say that it is Queenie and Spud’s wedding, but she isn’t sure she wants to share that much with someone she has only known for half a minute. Someone who also bears an uncanny resemblance to her mother.
Is this a joke? Rose wonders. Why didn’t Regina warn her? Then she remembers that Regina probably never met her mother.
Rose also questions the timing of Heather’s arrival. They are in the middle of a celebration, with a storm barreling toward them, and a long-lost relative has washed up on the beach via Atlanta.
“My father was your brother,” Heather says, as if this is a news flash.
“I can see the resemblance,” Rose says, thinking it is not only her brother she resembles.
“You can?” Heather’s small eyes widen, and Rose notices for the first time her smile. A smile, she imagines, that required several years of orthodontia to achieve. At least the smile is a departure from her mother, who rarely partook in something so frivolous unless she wanted to impress someone.
“You have Edward’s bone structure, hairline, even his hair color—at least when he was younger.” Rose feels generous saying this much.
Heather’s cheeks redden. “Regina didn’t seem too convinced.”
Regina probably wouldn’t admit it, even with DNA proof of paternity, Rose thinks.
She wonders what Heather hopes to gain from their meeting, and then asks herself when she became so cynical. It isn’t like her to think the worst of people.
Max gives Rose a look that asks, Can I go now? She nods, and he rejoins the party.
For an awkward moment, Rose and Heather stand at the front door, neither speaking. If first impressions are to be trusted, Rose’s first inclination is to lock up the silverware. Her second, to return to Wyoming, where she lived for twenty-five years to get away from
her mother.
“How can I help you, Heather?” Rose’s politeness sounds insincere, even to her. She wants this young woman out of her house.
“I’d like to ask you some questions,” she says.
Rose challenges herself to give the young woman a chance. She directs Heather to the rocking chairs on the south end of the porch, where they can have some privacy. Two guests from the wedding are on the other end, but far enough away that they won’t be able to hear.
“My mother died six months ago,” Heather says. “I didn’t know who my father was until I found my birth certificate in her papers.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Rose says, wondering why Heather’s mother didn’t share this information with Heather sooner. Did Edward threaten the woman? Pay her off?
Rose reminds herself to listen, instead of appointing herself judge and jury. She notices how perfectly Heather is dressed. Her sleeveless dress reveals an attractive figure. Tanned legs. Nice sandals. Toenails painted a dusty rose color that matches her purse, as well as her lipstick. Rose half expects her to be wearing pearls.
“Your father and I were never close,” Rose says, which is the truth.
“You weren’t?” Heather looks almost irritated, like she has come all this way for nothing.
“No, I’m sorry to say we weren’t.”
Rose’s absence of warmth isn’t like her. Is this self-protection? They pause again, their awkwardness cresting like the nearby waves.
Until now, Rose has never been an aunt. This will give Katie a cousin, too. A hereditary windfall in some ways. But something isn’t sitting quite right. Rose blames it on wedding fatigue and tells herself to be nicer.
“What was my father like as a boy?” Heather appears to renew her excitement, and smiles as if imagining something that involves frolicking.
Rose pauses. How does she tell Heather that her father was a first-class bully? A near-perfect copy of their mother until he betrayed her at the end by releasing the Temple secrets.
Gullah Secrets Page 6
