The Road to Testament

by Eva Marie Everson

  I wasn’t in middle school, after all.

  3

  My next stop was my childhood home, a sprawling example of luxury in the exclusive Windsong area. I passed through security with a wave of my hand to the guard, then continued through the winding streets until I reached the iron gate that safeguarded my parents’ home. I pushed a remote in my car programmed to the keypad. The gate opened like a mother welcoming her child home—graceful and wide. I proceeded onto the circular driveway, turned the gearshift to park, and pushed the ignition button to stop the motor.

  Mom met me at the door beneath the semicircular, Spanish-inspired portico. The arch above framed her perfectly. She was stunning, even in her late fifties and dressed down.

  As always, my admiration for her soared, knowing that while I have my father’s angular features and his business sense, I aspire to be like Mom. She is exquisite not only on the outside but on the inside as well.

  “What are you doing here so early?” she called to me with a smile. She wore a pair of slim ankle pants with a baby-pink cardigan set, which showed off the rose in her cheeks.

  “I’ve decided to head on out.” I slammed the driver’s door shut, raised my hands, and said, “Can you believe he’s doing this to me?”

  Mom extended her arms and I rushed into them, leaning over to accommodate her petite frame. She laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, child of mine, child of mine.” She stepped back. “Just as your heavenly Father knows what is best for you, so does your dad. You have to trust him.”

  “Mom,” I said in exasperation. “I trust the Lord. But sometimes I’m . . .” I started to laugh, in spite of my frustration or maybe because of it. “I’m just in awe of what he asks me to do.”

  “God or your dad?”

  “Both.”

  She pulled me by my arm to the inside grandeur of my childhood home. “Let’s have some lunch before you leave, and tell me what has inspired your new plan to leave so early.”

  I looked around the wide expanse of the entry hall as the soft soles of my Sam Edelman moccasins shuffled across the marble. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s upstairs working out. Go on into the kitchen and I’ll let him know you’re here.” She was halfway up the stairs when she turned and said, “I’m so disappointed you’ll not be here tonight, but I think I understand already.”

  My mother had always been able to read my mind. She and Gram understood me as few could.

  As I prepared a sandwich and a glass of cold milk in the kitchen, Mom entered. “He’ll be down in a few. He’s upset, naturally, that you’re leaving today. That man . . . sometimes . . .”

  I laughed. “Want to split a sandwich with me?”

  “You bet.” Mom grabbed a glass from a cabinet and placed it on the marble countertop next to mine. I filled it with milk before returning the gallon jug to the refrigerator. “I’ll get the SunChips,” she said. “Or would you prefer Baked Lay’s?”

  “Baked Lay’s.”

  We busied ourselves in food preparation while I continued to explain my plan for the day. “I don’t want to drive nine or ten hours straight,” I said. “I’ll be tired when I get there and I shouldn’t start my new business venture tired.”

  “I agree.”

  “He can be upset all he wants, Mom, but truth is, he should realize this is a mature and rational decision on my part.”

  “Hear, hear.”

  Mom and I turned toward the door where Dad stood. He wore a pair of shorts, a perspiration-soaked tee, and a towel around his neck. His silver-white hair, cut short, was spiked with sweat. Without a word, Mom reached into the refrigerator and brought out a water bottle for him. “You’ll need this,” she said.

  “Did I hear you say something about leaving early?” Dad asked, twisting the top.

  “You heard me,” I said. “I’m quite positive you were eavesdropping on your way in.”

  Dad winked. “You’re right, of course.” He took a long swig of water. “On both counts.”

  “You were eavesdropping and I am right in that I shouldn’t start off tired?”

  “Absolutely. Where will you spend the night?”

  “Savannah.”

  “I’ll call ahead for you. There’s a charming B & B there on Hull Street. Vivian, you remember the one, don’t you?”

  Mom nodded. “Charming, indeed. Our room had the most magnificent carved French oak armoire. And the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.” She looked to my father. “Make sure you reserve that room if you can.”

  “I’ll make the reservations. Knowing you,” he said, now looking at me, “you have not thought that far ahead. I’ll text you with the information.”

  He had me there. I’d not thought that far ahead. “Thanks, Dad. I’d give you a hug but you’re all . . . yucky.”

  He took another swallow of water. “Eat your sandwich, child, and be on your way,” he said with dramatic flair. “For in a moment, I must shower.”

  My heart soared and dropped simultaneously. I loved my parents so much. And I wanted to make them proud. I did. But at the same time, I knew my new adventure was something more. I had something to prove. To them and to myself.

  And prove it, I would.

  On Sunday, as I entered the quaint town of Testament, I followed Gram’s handwritten directions, holding them in one hand and steering slowly with the other. “Don’t bother with your GPS,” she’d told me. “It’ll get you to Testament, but it won’t get you to the Decker Ranch.”

  The weather was only slightly cooler than Central Florida had been two days earlier. I’d hoped for different. With the mountains rising around me and my ears popping every time I swallowed, I figured the temperature would have the decency to drop by ten degrees. At least.

  Even with my Jag’s tinted windows and the air conditioner running as high as it could, I felt the sun burning my skin. I rubbed my hand over my left arm, wishing for sunscreen.

  “I’d take off my blouse if I thought I could get away with it,” I said aloud. “Oh great,” I continued. “I’ve been in Testament thirty seconds and I’m already talking to myself.” I rolled my car to a stop at a red light, taking the opportunity to observe the town around me.

  Brick storefront facades ran tall and short on both sides of the road, offering old-world appeal. Many of the stores had been renovated, converted to shops and restaurants. Wrought-iron and wood benches separated by large pots of multihued flowers stretched between the doorways. The few people who meandered the sidewalks wore walking shorts, T-shirts, and colorful flip-flops. They tended to stay close to the shade afforded by scalloped awnings. Two children, who walked ahead of adults I assumed to be their parents, wrapped their cherub lips around ice cream stacked high in sugar cones. I ran my tongue over my bottom lip, wondering where they had purchased such delight. I contemplated rolling down the window and asking.

  A glance at the traffic signal showed the light had yet to turn green. I lowered my window to see if I might find an ice-cream shop. Just as I did, the driver’s door of a parked and battered pickup flew open. I cocked a brow at the cowboy wannabe who jumped out, scuffed boots landing firmly on the asphalt. In spite of the heat, he wore jeans I’d bet hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in weeks, a crisp short-sleeved denim shirt, and—I’m not kidding—a cowboy hat wrapped with a sweat ring. He caught me staring—or perhaps it was the other way around. His eyes pierced through to mine—screaming as if he knew I were some intruder stepping on his hallowed ground.

  Or as if he knew me . . . and we were archenemies.

  I powered my window up. The light turned green. Feeling awkward for reasons I couldn’t understand, I pushed the gas a little too hard. My car jerked, but I managed to gain control before I’d caused an accident. A peek at my side mirror confirmed my fear. Mr. Cowboy had taken it all in. He pulled on the rim of his hat and turned away.

  My heart cramped. I wanted to do this, even if only for six months, for myself as well as Gram. And the job. But
already the first person I made eye contact with had left me feeling . . . I couldn’t do this. Could I?

  I blew out a pent-up breath and pressed my lips together. Yes, I could.

  I could. I would.

  Six months wasn’t forever.

  Minutes later, I drove down a street flanked by antebellum houses with wide wraparound porches and thick columns; their lawns verdant and deep. These soon gave way to flat stretches of land.

  I continued, following Gram’s directions, taking a deep curve in the road that became Highway 108. My foot searched and found the brake. I was both lost and mesmerized by the mountains looming before me, by the seemingly endless land sprawled beside me. An occasional clearing revealed a house, a barn, or a silo. Wire fencing separated cow-dotted property from the two-lane road.

  I drove another ten minutes and, having passed not one other automobile, felt certain I’d made a wrong turn somewhere. I was about to pull onto the shoulder and call the number I’d been given for the Deckers when I spotted a mailbox shaped like an old-fashioned Royal typewriter. What appeared to be a sheet of paper jutted from the platen and, upon that, large black keys with D-E-C-K-E-R centered upon it.

  I’d found it. My new home. There’d be no turning back now, saying I couldn’t find it.

  Heaven help me.

  I made a hard left off the asphalt road into the rutted narrow driveway, which disappeared under a canopy of skinny-trunked, green leafy trees. My car rocked back and forth as it tilted upward, upward, past deep ravines on both sides. I crossed a man-made stone bridge built over a lazy stream flowing atop glossy river rocks. Just as I despaired my car would simply topple backward and I’d be found upside down in the little creek, the landscape cleared. A sloping yard led to a white-brick house on one side and a shimmering blue swimming pool and pool house on the other.

  I followed the driveway to the back of the U-shaped house, stopping beside a classic Jeep, an Acura, and a rather decrepit-looking Dodge truck.

  “Wow,” I said. I felt a brow arch. A two-story unpainted cottage stood farther up the hill and at the end of the drive. Adirondack chairs, a settee, and footrests had been arranged on one side and oversized planters spilling over with flowers on the other. The entire setting was both grand and primitive. “Wow,” I said again.

  One of several doors along the back of the main house opened. An older man stepped out. A light gust caught the mop of white waves atop his head, ruffling them like curtains in a breeze. He waved as though he’d known me all my life.

  I powered down my window.

  “Good afternoon,” he said jovially. “If you’re Ashlynne Rothschild, you’ve found us.”

  “I am,” I called back, just as a woman peered over his shoulder.

  “Are you Ashlynne?” she shouted.

  I sat riveted by all that was around me—the lush beauty of the landscape, the expanse of the main house, the cottage.

  The Deckers.

  They seemed a nice enough couple. And they were friends of my grandparents. “I am,” I repeated.

  “Well come on in, hon. It’s hot as blazes out here, and I’ve got some sweet iced tea for you inside the house.”

  “And she’s cooked enough food to feed the army of Moses,” the man added.

  “Is it okay to park here?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I’ll lead you up to the cottage direc’ly and we’ll get your car unloaded.” He stepped back into the house, allowing the screen door to slam behind him.

  I powered the window up again, turned off the car, and unbuckled my seat belt.

  “Well then,” I said. “I guess I found it.”

  4

  The Deckers’ home was unlike anything I’d expected. I’d pictured an older clapboard house with steps practically groaning with age and leading to a wraparound porch. I expected old rocking chairs and a squeaking swing hanging from the porch ceiling by rusting silver chains.

  Then there was the inside. No sparse furnishing purchased secondhand at a flea market as I’d anticipated. No sinking sofas and scuffed end tables with shade-less lamps. Instead, Bobbie Decker had blended antique furniture with newer, traditional pieces to form a home of warmth and invitation. Though I suspected many of the accent pieces to have been recently purchased, each held country charm, adding to the loveliness. She’d graced the living room with an antique settee and several velvet-covered wingback chairs. A low-sitting marble-topped coffee table looked cozy, stacked with Southern Living magazines, pieces of Oriental pottery, and a collection of “flickering” vanilla-scented flameless candles. Bookshelves flanked every wall, each shelf laden with titles, old and new.

  They gave me a tour of the front of the house, which included a formal dining room already set with antique china, ornate silver, and delicate crystal. Inside the living room, I pulled a fraying hardback copy of a novel titled The Digressions of Polly by an author I’d never heard of—Helen Rowland. “Some of these are quite collectible,” I said. Then, flipping the pages to the copyright page, I added, “Published in 1905.”

  Shelton Decker beamed beside his wife. He slid his hands into his pants pockets and rocked onto the balls of his feet. “Bobbie’s been collecting them things for about twenty years now, hadn’t it been, honey?”

  Bobbie—an elegant woman with short salt-and-pepper hair, striking blue eyes, and a smile that made them dance—gave her husband a playful nudge. “Something like that.”

  I opened the book to the beginning of the second chapter and read out loud. “ ‘Would it hurt you very much,’ said Polly, digging the point of her patent leather slipper into the wet sand and beaming up beneath a wealth of a shade hat, ‘if I were to read you something which I consider a vital blow to masculine egotism?’ ” I chuckled. “How delightful is this? Masculine egotism?”

  “Please,” Bobbie said, laying a somewhat gnarled hand over the page. “Feel free to take it up to the cottage and continue reading at your leisure.”

  I slipped the book back into its place on the shelf. “I’m not sure I’m going to have time, according to my grandmother.” I looked again at the Deckers, took a breath, and spoke the words I’d rehearsed since hitting the North Carolina border, hoping I could pull them off as friendly and open. “Please allow me to say how excited I am about working for you,” I said, knowing full well the only reason I was excited was the pot of gold that lay at the end of the rainbow. “And learning about the daily newspaper business, which I’m certain is completely different from what we do at Parks & Avenues.” Which reminded me . . . “And, of course, helping you to revive the magazine my grandparents once started with you.”

  Bobbie’s shoulders slumped. “That magazine,” she said to her husband. “I see no reason whatsoever to start that again.”

  Shelton’s face grew firm. “We’ve already discussed that,” he said. “And we don’t need to involve this young lady.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Did I misunderstand something?”

  “No, darlin’. You didn’t.” Bobbie looped her arm within mine. “I say we go into the kitchen and start getting the food to the table. You don’t mind helping with that, do you?”

  “Now, Bobbie,” Shelton said from behind us, “Ashlynne just got here and already you’re treating her like family.”

  “She’s Connie and Richard’s granddaughter. She is family.” Bobbie Decker patted my arm. Just like Gram. And just like that, I missed having her with me. Or so easily accessible.

  “I—I don’t mind,” I said. My stomach rumbled as Gram’s words about making friends came back to me. Get to know them . . . “You must be a marvelous cook. It all smells so wonderful.” Which wasn’t a lie or any slight attempt at “making friends.” The kitchen was blanketed with delight. And, if the way Bobbie Decker had greeted me earlier hadn’t been enough of a welcome, the aromas coming from her kitchen certainly were. I looked down at my hostess, who stood a good five inches shorter than me.

  “Bobbie’s a good co
ok,” Shelton said. “Always has been. ’Course your grandmother was something of a fine cook, too.”

  I smiled over my shoulder. “She still is. When she has time. Maybe retirement will give her a more of a chance.”

  “City living,” Shelton said, with a shake of his head. “I never understood what took them away from Testament. Had-a been me, I’d-a brought my folks up here rather than the other way around.”

  I started to answer that life in Winter Park had been good to our family but stopped short at the sound of a car door slamming.

  “Oh good,” Bobbie said. “William’s here. Just in time to get the ice in the glasses.”

  We stood in the center of the large kitchen. Through the wide window over the sink, I spied the same truck I’d seen earlier in town, the same boots, the same dusty jeans . . . the same cowboy. “Who is William?”

  “Our grandson,” Shelton offered. “Loves having Sunday dinner with us after church. ’Course today we’re eating a little later than usual.”

  I could think of not one word to say.

  The back door opened with a moan. Scuffed, pointed-toe boots met the hardwood floor before the rest of—what had Bobbie called him? William?—entered.

  His grandmother crossed the room and lifted her face for a kiss. He pulled the hat from his head, revealing sweat-slicked dark hair and amber-flecked brown eyes filled with love. “Hey, Gram,” he said, using the same endearment I used for my grandmother.

  Shelton left me standing alone in the center of the room and joined his family at the back kitchen door. The two men grinned at each other as the younger said, “Told you I’d make it on time, Big Guy.”

  The older laughed heartily as he slapped his grandson on the back. “Did you remember the ice cream like your grandmother asked you to?”

  A brown paper package I’d not noticed shot up from William’s right hand. He caught it in midair as though it were a baseball. “Yes, sir.”

  Shelton laughed again.

  “Give me that before you drop it and I end up with a floor to clean,” Bobbie said, though not a hint of admonishment tinged her voice.