The Big Picture
Edie pushed the gates of the dump closed and fixed the padlock. She walked to her car. The bushes in the swampy areas near the dump and the oldest trees along the roadsides had already changed color, but the rest of the woods would remain green for a week or so. Then the hills would fill out red, orange, and yellow, except where the tall pines grew.
Harlan’s folks were coming soon to see their son, to check his progress with the house, and, he said, to meet her and Amber. The last part got her saying, “Suppose they don’t like me?” Harlan told her not to worry. He was certain they would.
She tossed her work gloves and thermos on the floor. She pulled off her sweatshirt and reached for a sweater in the back. She changed from her boots to sneakers. She brushed the dirt from her jeans as best she could.
Edie picked up the flat envelope on the seat that held Amber’s large school photo, plus two wallet-sized ones and a note from her daughter. It said: “DEAR GRANDMA, I MISS YOU AND GRANDPA TOO MUCH. I’VE BEEN VERY, VERY GOOD. DON’T BE SO SAD ANYMORE. PLEASE SEE ME SOON. LOVE, AMBER.”
She reread her daughter’s note and slid it inside the envelope. She used the cracked mirror on the visor to clean the smudges from her face and to neaten her hair. She poked the key into the ignition.
“Let’s get this over with,” she told herself.
Stage Road was the shortest route back to the center of Conwell and the one with the best view although not the smoothest ride. She decided to take it. The road began a steep rise through a thick curtain of forest. Her car strained a bit near the top of the hill, where it was washed out, but the tires recovered their grip, and the road flattened at an apple orchard.
Behind the rows of trees, the land stretched, dipped, and rose into the Berkshires to the west. She braked and stuck her head out the open window. A red-tailed hawk cruised above, its shadow sailing across the hood of the car as it rode the air currents.
Edie drove on, passing a buttoned-up farmhouse, and behind it a barn with a plank holding its wide doors shut. A for-sale sign was nailed to a tree in the front yard. Edie dragged out an “Oh.” The couple, really nice folks, had been on her delivery route, too. The woman died a few years ago. The man tried to keep the orchard going, but he got too sick and forgetful. He’s probably living in a home in the city.
The couple had five kids, but none were around anymore. They didn’t want this kind of life, she supposed. Growing apples was a hard way to make a living. A late frost in spring, when the trees were in bloom, meant the end of the crop. There were lots of other problems: Bugs, diseases, finding reliable workers. The old man used to tell her all about it when she and Amber visited Saturday mornings.
She took her gaze from the sign. When it sells, the kids will get money. The orchard will likely be broken into building lots for rich newcomers. The trees would be cut down. Apples wouldn’t grow here anymore. She sighed. The old man would be hurt to see it this way.
The town always seems so peaceful up here. It’s what people driving through Conwell always said when they came into the store. They all wished they could move here. Harlan said he didn’t understand why his father ever left Conwell to live in Florida. She told him she knew why. He fell in love. He wanted to make his wife happy by being closer to her family.
Edie’s mind up was made up about what she would do today. She passed the town highway garage and seeing Jim Crocker’s truck parked in the yard, she stopped. The highway crew didn’t usually work Saturdays, but the front door was open, and she heard the sound of metal against metal. This would be easier than going to the man’s house.
She went inside the garage.
Jim Crocker was hunched over a truck’s engine. His head swung upward when he heard her call. He glared when he realized who she was.
“You got some nerve comin’ here.”
She stood on the other side of the truck, using it as a shield.
“I hate to say it, Jim, but your teenage boys keep picking on my little girl. They give her a hard time on the bus and make her cry. Amber’s only seven, and your boys are teenagers.”
She watched his fingers play on the grip of a wrench.
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
“You’re the dad. You can tell ’em to leave Amber alone.”
“You know, Edie, it’d be good for everyone if you and your girl just moved the hell outta town. Take your old man and that crazy aunt of yours with you while you’re at it.”
The toe of her right foot tapped the concrete floor.
“You all blame me for Walker’s death. I own up to my part but not all of it.” She raised her chin. “Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere. This is my home. The same goes for my family. You can forget about us leaving town.” Her voice was louder than when she started. “What kind of a father are you anyway, thinking it’s okay your boys do stuff like that?”
Jim Crocker puffed up his chest.
“A pretty damn good one. And I don’t appreciate you threatening to call the state cops on my oldest.”
“Jim, you and your family won’t ever like me. I get it. But my little girl has nothin’ to do with this.” She read his face, trying to gauge whether her words made any change in the man. “I believe you have a daughter a year younger than Amber. Sandy. I’ve seen her. She’s real cute. Amber likes her. They play together at recess.” Her eyes locked on the man. “Tell me, Jim. How’d you like it if some teenage boys made her cry for something you did? I believe you’d be having this same conversation with their parents.” She paused. “Your family’s fight is with me and not my little girl.”
Jim Crocker fingered the lid of his grease-stained cap as if he was going to tip it although she knew he wouldn’t.
“I’ll talk to my boys tonight. They’ll leave her alone. You have my word.” He worked his mouth. “You’re right about one thing though. I’ll never like you. None of us will.”
“Fair enough, Jim.”
Edie spun around and left the garage.
“Okay, Edie, that’s one down,” she told herself outside.
She drove straight to her in-laws’.
Marie was home, and so was Fred, Edie discovered, when he answered the door inside the screened-in breezeway that connected their house and garage. Fred blinked before speaking.
“Edie, is everything okay? Amber?”
“She’s fine, Fred. Is Marie home? I have something for her.”
Fred stared at the envelope in her hand.
“I’ll get her.”
Edie heard her in-laws talk in the kitchen. Marie asked what she wanted, and Fred told her to go see. When she finally appeared in the doorway, Marie squeezed herself tightly with her arms as if she were in danger of falling apart.
Her mother-in-law was thinner. She had let her hair go white, no longer a brassy yellow, and she wore it short and straight. Edie detected liquor on her mother-in-law’s breath, something sweet, port or sherry, but the drink didn’t soften Marie as she stood guard at the kitchen door.
Edie sighed. She spent countless times in their home, a grand Colonial filled with fine furniture and antiques passed down through their families. The house never went long without fresh paint. The lawn and gardens were always tended.
Marie stiffened.
“What do you want, Edie?”
“Here. This is for you from Amber.”
Edie handed Marie the envelope.
“You didn’t.” Her voice collapsed as she lifted the flap and peeked inside. “She’s growing so fast.”
Edie stood straighter.
“Yes, she is. There’s something else in there from her. A letter.”
Marie made a nervous cough as she reached inside. Her head was up after she finished reading.
“Tell Amber thanks.”
“No, Marie, you should do it yourself. She
can’t understand why you haven’t seen her. Neither can I. You used to spend so much time with her.” Edie wedged her hand against her hip. “The other day Amber asked me what would have happened to her if I had died with Walker. I told her you and Fred would have taken care of her, brought her up. You know what she said? ‘Maybe they don’t love me anymore.’ It broke my heart listening to her.”
Marie brought her fingers to her mouth.
“Oh, no.”
“Amber’s your granddaughter, for God’s sake. She’s Gil’s daughter. Don’t punish her for what Walker and me did.”
“Walker. Please, don’t.”
Marie wiped at her eyes.
“I didn’t come here, Marie, to upset you. I came here for Amber. She misses you so much.”
Fred stood in the kitchen door. His hand clutched the jamb, but Marie didn’t pay any attention.
“Tell me the truth, Edie. Did you love my son?” she asked.
“Gil? Of course, I did, with all my heart. You knew that.”
“No, no. I meant Walker.”
Edie let her lungs fill and empty slowly.
“I did. It just wasn’t the same.”
Marie nodded. Fred cleared his throat.
“My son was so unhappy. I see it now.” Marie’s voice drained to a whisper. “I’m afraid I didn’t help at all. I didn’t listen. Neither did Fred or her. At least you... I really wish you could’ve done something to stop him. But then there’s that trouble with the man from the bar. My poor boy.”
Edie struggled to stop her tears.
“Don’t blame yourselves,” she said. “Walker could be hard on the people who loved him.”
Her mother-in-law pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt.
“How are you doing? Are you making out okay? Does Amber need anything? New clothes? Money?”
Edie shook her head.
“She doesn’t need anything like that, but thanks for asking.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t have you working at the store.” Marie touched her throat. “I just can’t.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been filling in for Pop.”
“The dump. I heard.”
“I’m almost done. Pop will be back to work soon. I have a shot at another job. There’s something else I gotta tell you.” She paused because Marie appeared interested. “Before Dean went to Maine, he left an envelope filled with money. He sold a diamond ring Walker was going to give me. I didn’t know about it until after.” Her head dipped briefly. “It’s a lot of money.”
Marie glanced back at Fred. He nodded.
“Keep it, Edie.” Her voice cracked. “I believe it’s what my sons would want. You meant so much to the both of them.”
Edie nodded.
“Thank you for saying that,” she said. “Look. I gotta get home.”
Edie took one step off the stoop. She stopped when Marie called. Fred moved beside her.
“Take care, Edie,” Marie said. “Tell Amber we’ll see her soon.”
“That’d be good, really good, Marie.”
She glanced back when she reached her car. Marie gave a wave before she went inside the house.
Edie smiled. Harlan, she knew, was waiting to hear how everything worked out. They talked it over last night. Today he and Amber were hanging a swing he made for the large maple in her front yard. Maybe they were already done. If so, Harlan would be sitting on the porch, watching Amber play. He’d ask Edie if she had a hard day, and she would tell him yes, but now everything was just fine.
THE END
Acknowledgments
I am blessed to have the encouragement of my family, Hank, Sarah, Ezra, Emily, Nate, Zack, Julia, John, and Chris. Then there are my longtime friends Fred Fullerton, Teresa Dovalpage, and Amy Peck Murphy.
And thanks to the folks living in the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts who made our family feel welcome for so many years. Certainly the hilltowns inspired this novel although I attest the town, characters, and story come strictly from my imagination. But I’d like to think I could plunk the fictional Conwell in the middle of Worthington, Cummington, and Chesterfield, and it’d fit just fine.
About the Author
Joan Livingston is the author of novels and short stories for adult and young readers, including Peace, Love, and You Know What, Professor Groovy and Other Stories, and The Cousins/Los Primos bilingual series.
She’s an award-winning journalist who started as a reporter covering the hilltowns of Western Massachusetts, where The Sweet Spot is set. Her most recent gig was the managing editor of The Taos News.
She lives in Northern New Mexico, where she enjoys views of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, brilliant sunsets, and dark night skies. For more, visit www.joanlivingston.net.
Casa Rosa Books
Copyright © 2017 by Joan Livingston
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 0-9985854-0-8
ISBN-13: 978-0-9985854-0-6
Cover and book design by Michelle M. Gutierrez
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