I glanced from her Frida Kahlo T-shirt (ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA, read the cartoon bubble from the artist’s mouth) to her natural hair, tipped this month in fiery red. “Yeah, I know how much you hate color,” I said, making her laugh.
I skirted a rack of bins to get to my worktable, piled high with wallets waiting for snaps and trim. Purses, totes, and cross-body bags in bright colors and various stages of assembly overflowed every surface. I was already renting storage from the dry cleaner’s downstairs. My bedroom was so filled with bolts of vinyl and leather, I couldn’t find my mattress. Not that I had much time to sleep anyway.
The truth was, we needed a bigger workroom. A second sewing machine. More shelving. More light. Maybe even a little retail space, although a storefront in Manhattan was totally out of my price range, at least for now.
I reached for a punch tool. “You sure you’re all right filling these orders while I’m gone?”
“Mamey.” Easy. Flo Callazzo was a real New Yorker, a proud Afro-Dominican Puerto Rican daughter of the Bronx.
Me? Not so much. In Paris, my schoolgirl French had marked me as irredeemably “other.” I’d reckoned being back on American soil would feel like home. But my first week in the city, I’d realized my down-home accent made me stick out among the fast-talking Yankees all around me. Waitresses asked me to repeat myself. Buyers assumed I was uneducated. Guys figured I was easy. Or naïve. A dumb hick blonde.
Which worked to my advantage, sometimes.
“You’re not getting out of your sister’s wedding on account of me,” Flo said.
“I’m not trying to get out of anything.” I busied myself inserting a snap. “I’m flying down early to do some store checks.”
Three days after Easter. I didn’t actually need to visit clients on my way to my sister’s wedding. But I loved walking into a store and seeing my bags, my brand, displayed on the gleaming shelves (#bagsinthewild #ownit). I loved the expensive smell of the boutiques: citrus, sandalwood, jasmine, bergamot. The accounts were always happy to see me, flattered I’d gone out of my way to visit.
Not like going home at all.
Not that my family didn’t love me, I told myself as I left the last client store and hit the highway for my mother’s farm. They did. All of them, even Jo. But my sisters were too busy with their own lives to care much about mine.
Our mother, who never took a day’s vacation in her life, had encouraged all of us girls to work hard and follow our dreams. Meg was the perfect mother to two perfect children. Jo was a bestselling author. Beth was a budding country star. And I . . . I made accessories. It didn’t matter how many Instagram followers or employees I had. In my family’s eyes, I was still little Amy, playing with scraps from Miss Hannah’s quilting bag.
And yet . . . There was comfort in the familiar landscape rushing by, the tall pines stretching to the wide blue sky, the sunlit ditches full of cattails and turtles, the poppies blooming by the side of the road. I turned up the gravel drive marked SISTERS’ FARM, the stones spitting beneath my tires. The square-frame house, the old mule barn, the child’s playset in the baby goats’ paddock.
Home.
Too bad nobody was there. No car. No truck. Nobody.
I got out of the car and took a deep breath of country air scented with hay and the river. Also . . . goats. Brown goats, black goats, striped and spotted goats, all sizes, smelling like cheese left out on the counter too long. They crowded to the fence, bleating and bumping for attention, the babies skipping around the paddock like they were auditioning for YouTube. Cute, if you liked that sort of thing.
Our mother loved them. Not more than she loved us girls, of course.
Our mother, Abigail March, could birth a goat and kill a copperhead. She could find anything—toys, shoes, missing homework. Fix anything, except a broken heart. She made sure we got our shots and permission slips on time, taught Meg to cook and me to sew, and came to all our school performances. But her time and attention were always rationed between us and the farm.
Meg said things were different before Daddy quit his job as a minister and went to Iraq as an army chaplain. I remember I cried when we left the parsonage and all my friends in town. But I was only ten when our mother moved us girls out to the farm. Most of my memories were of her working.
It wasn’t like her to be gone in the middle of the day.
I didn’t expect to see our dad. Mom had asked him to move out almost three years ago. But I felt his absence like poking at a missing tooth with your tongue.
Stupid. All my sisters were grown and gone while I was still in high school. I should be used to coming home to an empty house by now.
I leaned against the front fender as I called Momma’s cell. She didn’t pick up. Typical. “Why would I ignore somebody standing right in front of me to answer the phone?” she liked to say. But I could call Meg, my oldest sister. Meg was busy, too—her twins were about to turn five, and she kept the books for several farms and businesses in town. But she always found time for me.
A guy walked around the corner of the barn. A tall, older guy, his face creased with hard living behind a don’t-mess-with-me beard.
I kept a hand on my phone just in case he turned out to be, oh, a serial killer or something. Living in New York had taught me caution. And out here in the country, nobody was around to hear me scream. “Hi.”
He nodded in greeting. The strong, silent type, obviously. Beneath the beard, he looked vaguely familiar. Well. Everybody looked familiar in Bunyan. Because of inbreeding, Jo said. But it was more that everybody had a cousin who used to go to your daddy’s church or went to school with your sister, strands of connection twined and knotted like macramé.
I tried again. “Do I know you?”
He looked at me, no expression at all. “Sam Harkins.”
I smiled encouragingly, waiting.
“I work for your ma.”
So he knew who I was. Or at least that Momma was expecting me. I relaxed my grip on the phone.
Our mother came from tough Scottish stock, too proud—or too cheap—to pay somebody else to do her work. But after she was hospitalized a couple years ago, she’d hired one of Dad’s vets to do the heavy lifting. (Literally. Those full-grown milking goats weighed a ton.) Mom was better now, but as her herd and business grew, she’d kept on some of her new hires to help around the farm.
“Where is my mother?” I asked.
“Over at Oak Hill.” A pause. “Helping your sister.”
Jo, being Jo, had taken a casual approach to her wedding. She and her love, Eric Bhaer, were already living together. They had three kids—baby Rob and two teenage sons from Eric’s previous marriage. It was only now that Eric’s ex-wife was deployed and his younger son, Alec, was coming to live with them that Jo decided it was finally time to get married. “I don’t need a poofy dress and a big, fancy wedding,” Jo said when she called me. “I just want to marry him.”
So. No bachelorette parties, no bridal showers, no save-the-date cards or hair and makeup trials. “No fuss,” our mother would say. It wasn’t quite an elopement—our great-aunt Josephine had offered her big old house at Oak Hill for the wedding, and all the family would be there—but it was pretty close.
Still, there must be a million things to do before the ceremony on Sunday. Food. Eric was a chef. And maybe I could help with the flowers or something.
“I guess I’ll go give them a hand,” I said.
Because nothing says I’m so sorry I slept with your old boyfriend like a flower arrangement. Anyway, spending time with my sister couldn’t be more awkward than hanging out here with Silent Sam.
With a little wave, I got back in the car, flipping down the visor to check my lipstick (Parisian Red). The little flick of eyeliner I’d applied so carefully this morning was only slightly smudged. Good enough, I decided. It wasn’t like I was going to
see Trey. And Jo didn’t care.
But Aunt Phee would, I thought as I turned in the long sandy lane toward Oak Hill. Nothing mattered more to our great-aunt than appearances.
Our father grew up in the big white house on the hill. Not that we girls ever lived there. When Daddy deployed to Iraq, Momma refused to move in with our father’s aunt Phee, moving us instead to her parents’ small farm. Over the years, the land had been sold off, but Oak Hill manor and some of the original outbuildings remained. Too much space, Aunt Phee said, for one old lady. Our father had moved into the carriage house after Momma kicked him out.
I could see signs of recent activity as I approached. The dark magnolias had been trimmed back from the house, the columned porch freshly painted, and the grass mowed all the way down the long slope to the duck pond. Azaleas and early roses bloomed everywhere, clouds of pink, red, and white, transforming the scrubby gardens into the perfect wedding venue.
I pulled into the long circular drive behind our mother’s battered blue pickup. A white van with the Taproom logo—Eric’s new restaurant in town—was parked by the side of the house.
And there was my sister Jo, laughing and chasing Robbie over the grass. He was grinning at her over his shoulder as he pushed a toy lawn mower, his fat little legs moving as fast as they could go, a wake of bubbles rising in the air behind him.
Gladness and guilt surged inside me. And maybe . . . a pang of envy? She looked so happy.
“Jokies!” I cried, getting out of the car.
Which is what I always called her. We had always been rivals, for Dad’s attention and, later, for Trey’s. She didn’t confide in me, the way she did in Meg. She didn’t baby me, the way she did Beth. But we were sisters. The funny pet name was my way of establishing a special bond just between us.
Robbie looked in the direction of my voice, stumbled over the mower, and fell.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” Jo said. To which one of us? She scooped up her baby, smooching his cheeks and propping him on her hip. She smiled at me over his head. “Hey, Ames.”
I hugged her awkwardly, the baby between us. He peeped at me from her neck, his shy smile revealing a string of little pearl teeth. He had his daddy’s dark skin and curly hair. Eyelashes to die for. “Hello, handsome.” I kissed his forehead gently. “You’re getting so big,” I marveled.
“Nineteen months.” Jo shifted his weight. “Good to see you. Mom wasn’t sure when you were getting in.”
“I wanted to come early to help. Not that you need help,” I added. “Everything looks wonderful.”
“Thanks. Wait till you see the inside,” Jo said.
I trailed her up the wide, shallow steps to the high, shaded porch. Planters of ferns flanked the leaded glass door.
Oak Hill manor was built in 1852 in the Greek Revival style. Aunt Phee’s style of furnishing was almost as old. But the faded velvet drapes and most of the oriental carpets were gone, the pine floors refinished, the walls painted a creamy neutral. The whole effect was light, bright, and inviting.
“Wow.” I surveyed the changes. Tables had been set up in the living and dining rooms. Dining chairs were stacked in the hall. “I thought you wanted a simple wedding.”
“Oh, it’s not for the wedding.” Jo’s face lit with excitement. “Tell her.”
Only one man brought that light to my sister’s face. I turned to see her honey, Chef Eric Bhaer, striding from the direction of the kitchen. Arm-Porn Guy, I’d dubbed him when they first got together. He kissed Jo and hefted their baby in the air, making him squeal with delight, before wrapping me in a big bear hug.
“Amy! Spatz!” Sparrow, in German. I felt a little glow at the special pet name. “It’s so good to have you here.”
Here was the welcome I’d hoped for. Eric was such a great guy. There was a time I couldn’t imagine how Jo could possibly reject Theodore Laurence III in favor of, well, any other man. But obviously my sister had made the right choice. Which only proved—didn’t it?—that I was over Trey. “Tell me what?” I asked.
“Eric’s opening a restaurant,” Jo said.
“Another one?” I asked.
Jo nodded, beaming. “Here at Oak Hill.”
“Thursday through Sunday only,” Eric said. “During the season, yeah? I want to spend more time with my family. So we hire a sous chef for the Taproom, and I work from home this summer.”
“Eric has hired a whole new staff,” Jo said with a glowing look at him. “Local kids who can’t afford culinary school. Working at Oak Hill will give them a chance to learn the high-end food business without going into a bunch of debt.”
“That’s . . . Wow. That’s amazing. But here?” I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. “How did you get Aunt Phee to agree?”
“It was her idea. She wants Oak Hill to stay in the family, and she wants me to stay in North Carolina. So she offered us Oak Hill.”
“But where will she live?” I asked.
“She’s moving into the carriage house. At least for now.”
“Aunt Phee is going to live with Dad?”
Jo hesitated. “I think they’re still working that part out.”
“She is in the library with your mother now,” Eric said. “They will be glad to see you.”
“They were arguing about the seating chart for the reception when I left,” Jo said.
“Oh.” Well. I’d come to be helpful, after all. “I’ll go . . . referee.”
Jo grinned. “Better you than me.”
“. . . have a responsibility,” Phee was insisting as I came down the hall.
“Not anymore.” My mother’s voice was flat.
I blinked. Abby March was all about taking responsibility.
“He’s still your husband,” Phee said, and my stomach sank.
They weren’t talking about the wedding. They were arguing about Dad. I pasted a smile on my face and pushed open the door. “Hey, Momma,” I said brightly. “Hi, Aunt Phee. Am I interrupting?”
Phee glowered. She and my mother faced off across the library desk. My mother’s hands and lips were pressed together, a sure sign she was angry. But she smiled when she saw me.
“Hey, sweetie. What are you doing here?”
Like I needed another reason to feel de trop. I felt my smile slipping and dragged it back. “I thought I’d come in early. To help.” I gave Momma a quick hug before going around the desk to kiss Phee’s cheek. The little dog in her lap growled.
“What about your work?” my mother asked.
“Flo’s handling orders while I’m gone. That’s the advantage of owning your own business,” I said. “I can take time off.”
If my mother was impressed by my entrepreneurship, she didn’t show it. “Jo doesn’t want a lot of fuss.”
“I thought I could help with the flowers.”
“Meg ordered the bouquets already.”
“What about table arrangements?”
“I’m picking up flowers when I go to the farmers’ market on Saturday.” Something must have shown in my face, because our mother added, “You could arrange those. You did such a nice job for Meg’s wedding.”
Phee sniffed. “You want to make yourself useful, you can take Polly for a walk.”
“Nice to see you, too, Aunt Phee.”
I eyed the bad-tempered Yorkie on her lap. The dog didn’t seem any more excited at the prospect of a walk than I was. But I was obviously in the way here. Anyway, our family owed Aunt Phee. She had paid for my postgraduation trip to Europe. She had opened her home to Dad. And she was doing such a generous thing for Jo and Eric, letting them have the wedding here. Letting them have Oak Hill.
Hm, I thought as I clipped the lead to Polly’s collar. I wasn’t jealous. Exactly. But if Phee was going to invest in her great-nieces, why not me?
> We meandered toward the duck pond, the little dog stopping frequently to sniff. The sun sparkled on the flat water. A faint breeze rippled the surface, stirring the reeds at the water’s edge, loosening a shower of petals from the nearby apple trees. In spite of the smell of decay from the pond, all the scene needed to be perfect was Colin Firth in a wet white shirt.
Polly growled and quivered. A family of Canada geese was browsing on the bank, the adults standing at attention over five little goslings.
“Don’t even think about it,” I told her sternly. “They’ll eat you for lunch.”
Polly snorted and busied herself with a stick. Let her. I didn’t care if she made herself sick.
While Polly rootled at the ground, I contemplated the azaleas, wondering how long the blooms would last if I cut some branches to use in wedding arrangements. A burst of yapping grabbed my attention. Polly tugged against my hold on her leash. There was a squawk. A honk.
A splash.
I looked. Polly had seized one of the goslings by the neck and stood with her struggling prize on the bank, triumphant and seeming slightly bewildered by her success.
Shit. I started forward. But not before Momma and Poppa Goose lunged, necks outstretched, black beaks open and hissing.
“No!” I shouted. “Polly, stop! Drop it!”
Wild-eyed, the dog obeyed. Or maybe the gosling freed itself. Peeping in distress, the bird ran for its mother. But it was too late. As Momma Goose shepherded her baby to safety, Poppa attacked.
Polly yelped and stumbled under the rush of the bird’s wings, tumbling into the water.
“No!” I yelled again. “Shoo!”
The goose paid no attention, fixing its beady eyes menacingly on the dog.
Crap, crap, crap. I ran into the pond, my sandals sinking in the muck, and scooped up Polly. The Yorkie bit me, drawing blood. The indignity of it—after I’d rescued her, the little monster!—slapped my senses. The goose advanced on us, hissing, head moving side to side like a snake’s. I clutched Polly to my chest.
Meg and Jo Page 38
