by Macy Beckett
“Which backfired.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “I was tired of being controlled.”
But her feeling of vindication hadn’t lasted beyond a few weeks. Several times, she’d picked up the phone to extend the olive branch, but fear had stopped her. Not fear of Grammy, but of the disappointment and loathing in her voice. She couldn’t bear to hear it again.
“Did you miss her?” Luke pressed their palms together, comparing the lengths of their fingers.
“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it. “But she made me feel shunned. And each year that went by, it got harder to call. I kept imagining she’d hang up on me, or worse…” Tell me I’m “trash” like she said in our last fight. “Anyway, I’m here now.”
“Well, Junebug, I’m glad you’re back.” He released her hand, then patted her knee and rose to his feet.
“Me too.” Because it wasn’t only Grammy she’d missed. “And I want to help while I’m in town,” she reminded him.
Luke didn’t answer, just sniggered as he skipped down the steps. He grabbed his wallet off the car’s roof and slipped it into the worn back pocket of his jeans, drawing her attention to his magnificent backside. Off limits! She glanced away and swallowed hard.
“Tell Pru good-bye for me.” Then he hopped in his truck and drove off to supervise the Helping Hands crew.
After one day, not even a full day, of working at the Jenkins house, June’s back and arms had ached so badly she’d needed two ibuprofen pills to sleep last night. Luke intended to spend his days laboring there, before driving an hour and working all night on his investment property? Impossible. June needed to figure out how to make Luke see she wasn’t a walking catastrophe and accept her help before he worked himself into an early grave.
Chapter 6
About fifteen years ago, an argument over whether or not Jazzercise counted as sinful dancing broke out among the Sultry Springs churchgoers, and a few disgruntled members marched their leg warmers over to a new house of worship: Holy Baptism by Water. The rift had rocked the county, pitting brother against brother, much like the Civil War, but far more serious. These pious soldiers fought for everlasting glory, as opposed to something as trivial as states’ rights. The Sultry Springs Holy War raged on for six months, until the Jazzercise instructor ran off to Vegas with her boyfriend. Then, with their heads hung in defeat, the defectors returned home and rejoined the flock. Nowadays, if a person wanted his soul saved, there was only one option: Holy Baptism by Hellfire.
June brushed her fingertips against the shiny oak pew, polished to a high gloss by hundreds of bottoms and decades of use. Years ago, she and Luke had squirmed in these pews and found ways to amuse themselves during the long sermons: passing notes, playing tic-tac-toe or rock-paper-scissors, and her favorite distraction—replacing the nouns and adjectives in the church bulletin with dirty ones. Mr. Peterson’s white corn for sale, you shuck it! became Mr. Peterson’s sweet ass for sale, you…well, something obscene that rhymes with “shuck it.” Sometimes her ribs had ached from holding in the laughter.
The church had added a new fellowship hall off the sanctuary—a boxy, red brick structure that looked out of place next to the weathered, white wood of the main building. Otherwise, nothing had changed. The air inside the church still smelled like dusty silk flowers and arthritis ointment.
“Well, look at you, Mae-June.” Pastor McMahon ambled out of his office. June recognized his voice—a drawl thicker than molasses that stretched “Jesus” into four syllables, Jay-ee-us-sus—but he’d lost all his hair and found a hundred pounds instead. “Sister Pru told me you were back.”
Grammy gave June’s arm a zealous pat. It was the first time Gram had touched her since she’d come to town two days ago, and June’s muscles stiffened at the contact. Her grandmother had never been an affectionate woman to begin with, and after so many years apart, June wasn’t used to Gram’s touch.
“I go by June now.” She folded her arms over her breasts. It seemed wrong wearing an immodest tank top and khaki shorts in the Lord’s house, but lawn mowing was hot work, and the temperature was supposed to top ninety again.
“Did I hear Mae-June’s voice?” A gaggle of ladies in the lobby shuffled into the sanctuary. Apparently, June was a celebrity now.
Ms. Bicknocker straightened her spine and peered down her long nose. She’d once been the pariah of Sultry County, until she found God after working the pole for twelve years in a Houston gentleman’s club. Now she looked just as constipated as everyone else. “I see you’re not married,” she said, glimpsing June’s left hand in clear condemnation. “What’re you up to these days?”
June glanced at Grammy, not sure what to say. These ladies were hard-core advocates for the prohibition of sinful vices like booze, and she didn’t want to start any trouble.
“Well, now,” Gram said, wrapping one arm around June’s shoulder. “June’s got her own business. A…bar. Sounds real special with an aquarium an’ everything.” Holy buttered biscuits, she almost sounded proud!
“I see.” Ms. Bicknocker shook her head disapprovingly. “And where do you go to church?”
June grinned and slipped her hands in her back pockets. “I belong to Our Lady of Infinite Lazy Sunday Mornings on the Sofa.”
That joke usually elicited laughs, at least a snicker or two, but no smiles broke out this time. Tough crowd.
“Mmm,” came the disappointed response.
Pastor McMahon wrinkled his mouth and tipped his head forward like he was praying for June’s soul. “May I ask why you don’t attend service?”
Was there a tactful, mature way to say, ’Cause I don’t wanna? “I’ve just been so busy.”
The pastor nodded in understanding. He’d probably heard that one before.
June decided this was the perfect moment to excuse herself. “I should start on the lawn before it gets too hot.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Leaving the cool lobby behind, she followed Pastor McMahon outside to the storage shed. “There’s a gas can in there,” he said. “But don’t forget to let the mower cool off before you refill it. And come inside if you get too hot. There’s iced tea in the fellowship hall.”
She thanked him and tugged open the heavy wood door. The hot, musty air inside the shed parched June’s skin, making her face itchy and tight, and by the time she’d tugged the mower out and found the gas can, her tank top was damp with sweat. That glass of iced tea sounded awfully good, but she had too much pride to take a break before actually doing anything.
After filling the gas tank, June primed the motor and yanked the start cord a few times until the engine turned over and rumbled to life. She started near the building and worked her way out, mowing in meticulous, straight lines. No way she’d mess up like yesterday—this would be the neatest, trimmest lawn anyone had ever seen. An hour later, she stood back and admired her work and then rewarded herself with two tall glasses of tea.
The grass was taller and thick with weeds at the back of the property where the church grounds met a fallow field, so June slowed her pace, lifting the front of the mower every few feet so it didn’t choke and shut off. It was dull, monotonous work, so she let her mind wander, imagining opening night at Luquos. But while June tried to decide which outfit to wear, her thoughts drifted to Luke. What was he doing right now? Maybe demolishing Jenkins’s rotted back deck. Did he think about her? Doubtful. In every relationship—or in their case, friendship—there was always one person who gave more. That person had always been her. Besides, he was so busy now he couldn’t spare a second to think about anything but work.
She probably wouldn’t see Luke at supper anymore, at least not until he finished his house, and by then, she’d return to Austin. But perhaps that was a blessing. If June was honest with herself, and she tried to be, she could easily fall for him again in the next twenty-eight days if they spent too much time together. Best to—ouch! Something scraped against June’s calf, maybe a patch of th
istle. She rubbed the side of her sneaker against her leg, but the prickle intensified, until it felt like her skin was on fire.
Releasing the mower, she glanced down at her legs—and shrieked like a banshee. A stinging, swarming cloud of yellow and black covered her calves and ankles. She must’ve run over a bees’ nest! They crawled in frantic zigzag patterns higher up the length of her body, while some took flight and prepared to attack her face. June’s heart nearly seized, and she bolted for the fellowship hall, screaming the whole way. She was still yelling when she threw open the door and dashed inside.
“Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!” June scurried in circles, swatting at her legs, her arms, her face, anywhere she could reach.
Dozens of shoes squeaked and clopped against the tile floor, but June couldn’t see anything except a blur of arms as she slapped herself silly.
“Oh, my Lord!”
“Put her in the baptismal font!”
“No! Get the hose.”
“Where’s the wasp spray?” It was Gram’s voice, the only one June could identify in her panicked state.
Within seconds, the air was practically impossible to breathe as Gram fogged the fellowship hall with thick, acrid insecticide. Coughing hard enough to hack up a lung, June bent over and braced her hands against her knees. The scene playing out before her was comical, and she would’ve laughed had she not been paralyzed in agony and choking on fumes.
Pastor McMahon’s stomach bobbed up and down as he jumped to swat a rolled-up newspaper against the low ceiling. Prim church ladies armed with fly swatters whacked and smacked, crouching low and then springing on their prey like kung-fu fighters. Even Ms. Bicknocker joined in, flicking a dish towel with the skill of a seasoned locker room jock. When the last of the bees were crushed, everyone huddled around June’s swollen, blotchy legs.
“My daddy used to chew tobacco and spit on the stings.”
“Got any tobacco?”
“Nope.”
“How ’bout ammonia?”
“We should call Doc Benton.”
“He’s wet behind the ears. Call Doc Noble.”
“Everyone get your credit cards,” Grammy said. “And tweezers, if you can find ’em.”
Ten minutes later, Pastor McMahon brought June some aspirin and iced tea, and she tried her best to sit still while five gray-haired ladies scraped and plucked the stingers from her skin.
“Quit squirming,” Ms. Bicknocker said over the top of her bifocals. “I can barely see as it is.”
“Sorry. It really hurts.” The throbbing ache didn’t subside. If anything, it mounted with each passing second. June grasped the cool edge of her plastic chair and held her breath. Nope, that didn’t help.
“Nora,” Gram said to June’s old Sunday school teacher. “See if you can find a spray bottle. Baking soda and water’ll cool the burn.”
And God bless them all, it really did. June’s temples still ached, but Gram claimed that was to be expected with all the venom in her bloodstream. When the last stinger had been plucked, June thanked everyone for their time and help, and Pastor McMahon suggested she show her appreciation by attending next Sunday’s service. She agreed, unable to think of a single excuse not to, and asked for indoor community service hours until her legs healed.
Back home, Grammy made June lie in bed with three pillows under her knees. Then she wrapped June’s legs in cool, damp towels soaked in baking soda and ice water.
“Same thing happened to your mama.” Gram sat at the end of the bed, and it shook with her weight. “I ever tell you that story?”
June shook her head. She could count the number of times Gram had spoken Mama’s name on one hand and still have a couple fingers left over. Like a child at bedtime, she grinned in anticipation of the rare morsel to come.
“Mowin’ right back there in the tall weeds. She was eat up with welts.” Gram laughed quietly to herself. “While I was in here tendin’ to the stings, your granddaddy took a can of gasoline and set half the lawn on fire tryin’ to kill the nest. Nobody messed with his little girl, not even Mother Nature.” Shaking her head, she whispered, “Lord, he did love that child somethin’ fierce.” Gradually, her smile fell, eyes glistening with tears that never quite spilled over. “Probably a blessin’ that he went first. He wouldn’a survived losin’ her.”
Gram pulled a familiar, frayed hair ribbon from her pocket and rubbed it between her fingers. June knew it was Mama’s. She’d watched Grammy stroke that green velvet a thousand times over the years, proof that she thought of Mama often, even if she didn’t talk about her. Grammy gazed at the worn strip of fabric with so much grief and longing it broke June’s heart.
“I miss her too.” Every day.
Ever the stoic, Grammy made a noncommittal grunt and tucked the ribbon back into her pocket. She smoothed an imaginary stray hair back into her bun and changed the subject. “You hungry?”
“Not really.” June pulled herself to a sitting position, dragging all the pillows and wraps along for the ride. “Listen, don’t tell Luke about this, okay? He already thinks I’m snakebit.” And maybe she was—misfortune seemed to follow her like a lemming.
Gram smiled once again, sending creases and deep folds in motion over the tops of her cheekbones. “You don’t have your granddaddy’s luck o’ the Irish, that’s for sure.”
“Can I ask you something about Luke?” When Gram didn’t object, June continued. “He said someone gave him a second chance. Was that you?”
“No, ma’am. He never needed one from me.” Grammy nodded toward his room. “I shouldn’t’ve thrown him outta the house like that, and I told him so in a letter a few days later. Told him to come back home anytime he pleased. I think it took a long time for him to forgive me, ’cause the first letter I got was invitin’ me to his wedding.”
June’s lungs compressed like someone had dropped a sack of concrete on her chest. She’d received that same letter her freshman year in college, and she’d cried so hard she’d missed two days of class. Even now, all these years later, she couldn’t deny the heavy ache that came with knowing Luke had loved some other woman enough to marry her.
June cleared her throat. “Did you go?”
“Yep. He didn’t have anyone else. What could I do?”
Gram seemed to understand how June felt. She probably knew June had fantasized for years about marrying Luke and raising their children together on this farm. For Gram to attend his wedding to someone else seemed like an act of betrayal.
“But I didn’t like her.” Grammy leaned toward June and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I was glad they split up. She wasn’t a nice girl like you.”
June couldn’t help but smile. “So who gave him a second chance?”
“That’d be Morris Howard.” Gram pushed herself off the bed with a groan and massaged her lower back. “An old widower who used to court me.”
“Grammy! You had a boyfriend?”
“He was a builder,” Gram said, smiling and ignoring the question. “Took Lucas on as an apprentice—taught him everything—then left all his equipment and money to Lucas when he passed.”
“And he used the money to start Helping Hands?”
Gram nodded and shuffled to the door. “I’m mighty proud of that boy, but there’s still room for improvement. His mama didn’t set much of an example, June.” Gram paused in the doorway for a minute, hesitating to say more. Finally, she lowered her head just a fraction and gave June a solemn look. “He needs someone to teach him to love. Think on that.” Then she left that bombshell suspended in midair and walked downstairs to make supper.
June stared into the empty hall. Teach him to love? Apparently, he had a firm grip on the concept—wasn’t his ex-wife living proof? Luke knew how to love other women, just not her. And no matter how badly June wanted to, she couldn’t teach him how to do that.
Chapter 7
Luke wasn’t sure how it started, but when he and June were kids, they used to hold their breath when they’d pa
ss a graveyard. This didn’t present much of a challenge while cruising by in Pru’s old, brown station wagon, but bicycle rides—and especially walks—had stretched their lungs to the limit, and they’d always made it a contest to see who could reach the rusted, iron gates that bordered the cemetery without exhaling. Funny, he hadn’t thought of that in years. But now, as he crossed the threshold into Sultry County Memorial Hospital, he held his breath once again. After all, there were dead people under his feet—several floors below, resting in the morgue.
Luke hated hospitals. In fact, until Trey’s accident the other day, he’d managed to avoid setting foot in one for nearly a decade. When he’d broken his nose—once playing a friendly game of football with his squadron, and again during a not-so-friendly bar brawl with some drunken Bavarians—he’d insisted on receiving treatment in the doctor’s office. Why would he want to expose himself to the diseases and plagues of a thousand people, all crammed into one foul-smelling building? Nothing good happened within these walls. Hell, at that very moment, a dozen people were probably dying all around him. Morbid? Maybe. But true, all the same.
As he approached the elevators, he slowed his pace, allowing a group of visitors to file inside and head off to their destinations. He didn’t want to share a ride, partly because those strangers were trailing germs from someone’s bedside, and also because he’d just left the Jenkins house after eight hours of demolition work, and he smelled riper than a month-old carcass.
“Going up?” A teenage boy with blue hair and a pierced lip held the elevator door.
“Nah,” Luke said with a wave. “I’ll catch the next one.”
