With his hand now entwined in Mother’s, Chief leads us through the grounds of Rowan Oak. He continues to point out various plants, adding sweet stories one by one, and I take notes to share with Fisher.
Near the gazebo, Bitsy eyes the large camellia and tells the kids about their earliest hide-and-seek games. “Mary Evelyn chased a rabbit from the boxwood once.” She offers a heartfelt smile. “You thought that was where the Easter Bunny lived. Remember?”
Trip gives his sister grief for this, but his teasing stops when Mother suggests we take a few family photos by the barn. She points toward the structure’s green roof, a contrast to the rough-hewn logs and chalky chinking. We each take turns behind the camera, capturing various group photos before moving north of the tenant house where the catalpa tree rises wide and sturdy like a wizened groundskeeper. I fiddle with the English ivy that has crept its way from roots to branches, just as Chief warned. The effect provides a textured backdrop, ideal for a few more snapshots. When a considerate tourist offers to take a photo of our entire family, Mother beams, overjoyed, as we all gather close together for a few takes.
Once the tourist has returned the camera, I nudge the others toward Bailey’s Woods where ancient oaks and hickories mark the trail. The trunks are so thick, Trip and I can barely link our arms around them. “I challenge you to find the oldest.”
Trip accepts, wrapping trunk after trunk, trying to gauge the girth of sweet gums, beeches, and oaks of all sorts—red, white, and post. By the third or fourth tree, Bitsy shouts a warning: “Don’t come complaining to me when you get poison ivy!”
He keeps at the hunt while Mary Evelyn balances her way across a fallen hickory. Having collected a few pods from a crape myrtle, I seize this opportunity to share our childhood poem about grandmother’s purse, teaching my niece to pop open the seams in search of treasure. While she may be too old for ghost stories, she smiles when she finds the floral handkerchief and gold within, proof nobody outgrows such simple wonders.
The six of us share memories until the trail’s end at the university museum. Then we follow the peaceful wooded path back toward Faulkner’s house, weaving past yet another honeysuckle patch. The strong fragrance prompts my eyes to water, but I snap two white flowers, stealing them from the oversize bumblebees who surround the near-twenty-foot vine with a constant hum.
“White flowers are my favorite,” Mary Evelyn says. I want to add a Chief-like homily, tell her I need her in my life as much as the flowers need the bees, somehow convince her she needs me too. But I don’t dare push the boundaries for fear Bitsy will slam me out again.
“You know how to drink the honey?” I pass her one of the blooms.
When Mary Evelyn shakes her head, I mourn for her—so out of touch with nature, unfamiliar with even this basic childhood milestone. I lift my own flower, chest-high, and model the technique from my youth. “See this little green part? Where the flower was connected to the stem?”
Mother overhears and joins in, elated for the chance to teach the proper vocabulary. “That’s right.” She leans over us. “Now give that bud a little pinch, just above the calyx.” She guides her granddaughter with gentle hands. “Go ahead and break through the petal. Just don’t squeeze too hard or you’ll ruin the inside parts, and that’s where you find the sweet stuff.”
Trip plucks his own flower from the vine. “Now pull, softly,” I say, showing both of them how it’s done. “Just until this tiny white string comes out.”
They mirror my moves.
“That’s called the style,” Mother says patiently. “It’s the female part. So what you want to do is pull that style until you see the little green stigma at the end. And when the stigma hits the edge, all the nectar squeezes into a little drop of sugar. You see?”
“Now drink!” I say, as if making a toast for one of our make-believe fairy parties. The innocence of our childhood!
“Tastes good.” Mary Evelyn pulls another one from the vine. Trip nods confidently as if he’s known this secret all along.
Mother steps ahead, trying to catch Chief and Bitsy again, but the kids and I stay back, sipping nature’s candy, sharing a secret the rest of the world forgets: How to stop and take notice. How to care.
When the kids and I finally leave the trail, we spot Chief, Mother, and Bitsy already walking toward the car. We hurry to catch our crew, and I’m struck with a sudden rush of what-ifs.
What if I had made different choices from the start? What if I had stuck around to watch another year of seasons spin here in Oxford, staying to see the daffodils bloom or to wander beneath the privet tunnel hand in hand with Fisher? What if we had kept right on kissing until the naked ladies emerged near the Osage orange? What if I had lingered long enough to see cape jasmine arrive, her voluptuous white bundles an aromatic call for summer love? Or even longer, when the spider lilies burst open in the fall and the yellow autumn light fell low among mossy roots? What if I had stayed through winter, forming snow angels with my lover beneath the icy cedar boughs? What if I had not let fear defeat me after Fisher knelt before me in my mother’s backyard garden, ring in his hand and happy-ever-after in his heart?
EIGHTEEN
Mockingbirds wake me with angry squawks as they chase a blue jay from the hickory leaves. While the birds battle for terrain, a squirrel skitters across Mother’s trellis. It’s a path he’s taken countless times since my arrival nine days ago. He’s heading toward one of the feeders Mother keeps stocked with seed. As I stretch beneath the covers, an eastern bluebird joins the scene, his bright wings a stark contrast to the rust-toned breast feathers. As fledglings chirp from his birdhouse nest, the sun gives birth to a new day.
I rise, stretch, and take a look at my phone: Call. ASAP. It’s way too early for Brynn to be texting. Something is definitely wrong.
She answers with a warning cry, much like the alarms of the jays. “Eva? Listen. The Dragon got wind of the new production schedule. She’s wanting to know when you’ll be back in the office. Has she called?”
I glance at my phone log. “No.”
“She’s not happy, Eva. I don’t know how much longer I can stall her. I’m dreading going in today. What am I supposed to say?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll give her a ring. Smooth the waters.”
“I can’t tell you how much she scares me.” Her voice tenses.
“Don’t let her shake you, Brynn. I’ll handle it. Promise. Even with the new deadline, everything seems to be moving on schedule from my side. Any kinks for you?” Outside, the sun continues to rise, shifting shadows and reminding me how quickly time is moving.
“Much better than expected,” she admits. “Everyone seems to understand. No complaints, other than that graphics intern.”
“Intern? They put an intern on this account?” This does upset me, and my voice suggests as much. “I’ll give them a call too.”
“Well, I don’t know if he’s officially an intern, but he sure does act like one. Annoying. Overconfident. And slow.” She pronounces slow as if it’s a two-syllable word.
“Hmmm . . . wasn’t so long ago I hired an intern much like the one you describe.” I say this with a smile, and I’m certain she can hear the kindness.
“Ouch! But thanks for making me laugh.”
“Best I ever hired. You know that.”
“Yeah? Well, if you want us to keep working together, you’ve got to make that call, Eva. First thing.” With that, she relaxes, shifting to boast about her latest boyfriend, a dentist who has made it past the three-date cutoff, a rarity for Brynn, who is known to sideswipe an online prospect faster than I can learn his name.
“Standards,” she always says, quick to nix any potential suitor who poses with a shirtless selfie, a gun, or a fishing rod on the online dating sites she frequents. “Because . . . cheesy.”
That’s my Brynn. Her requirements include a professional-level degree, a six-figure salary at minimum, and no ex-wife or kids. “Plus teeth,” she always adds. “Teet
h are a must.” But when it comes time for a second date, she’s got even tougher criteria. Her motto is “Never settle.” Certainly a rule I admire and one that will take her far in life. But somehow this dentist has made the cut, and she’s flat-out giddy about date number four.
She’s giving me the scoop when Fisher’s landscaping truck finds its way down our gravel lane. I seize the first polite opportunity to end Brynn’s call. Then I dress and stroll downstairs where Mother greets me with coffee. “Helping with the grounds crew again today?”
“Actually, I thought we might work your gardens. Together. It’s been a while.”
“It has indeed.” Her glow suggests she’s charmed. “But maybe you should make sure Fisher doesn’t need a hand. Your father’s concerned about getting that drainage worked out before the party. Worries we won’t have enough parking without it.”
Good ol’ Chief is playing this one like a champ.
After moving to the kitchen, I add a little cream to my coffee before Mother joins me at the table, offering a tray of fruit and some quinoa toast with avocado. “The kids were so glad to be done with finals yesterday. Did you talk to Mary Evelyn? Seems a little nervous about her birthday tea this afternoon.”
“Hope it’s not on account of me. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed them.” I eye the fruit on Mother’s plate, barely touched. “Sure you’re feeling okay?”
She nods and opens the paper, reading aloud about a local who is making it big on Broadway. “Isn’t it exciting?” She’s clearly avoiding the topic, even as her bones protrude from both wrists, angling out like pins. I know when to back off.
The story of the local actor makes me think of Bitsy’s engagement in the Big Apple, a romantic summer proposal in Central Park that caught us all off guard. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen Whitman yet. Think he’ll be at the tea party?”
“No telling. He travels a lot these days.” Mother keeps scanning the news. “Bitsy stays so busy with the kids. I guess they kind of do their own thing.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I sip my coffee.
“Oh, you know. He’s here and there.”
I try my toast, then take another approach, hoping to learn more. “Bitsy doesn’t seem very happy, does she?”
Mother looks up from the paper and holds a pause before answering. “No, Lovey. She doesn’t.”
“Did something happen? With Whitman?”
She removes her glasses, holds them in hand. “I’m hoping they’re just going through a rough patch. Everybody has those.”
“Not you and Chief.”
“Oh, sure we do. You can’t spend fifty years together and not hit a dry spell every now and then. Any gardener can tell you that. Trick is knowing how to adapt.” She sips her coffee. “Gotta keep growing. Whatever life brings.”
“Easier said than done, Mother.” I put it in garden terms to lighten things back to Mother’s comfort zone. “Seems to me, Bitsy is withering.”
She takes my hand now and stares the way she did when she told me my grandmother had passed away. “Why do you think I insisted you come home, Lovey? I keep trying to tell you. Your sister needs you. No matter how much she pretends otherwise.”
Fisher’s voice reaches me before I crest the hill. The familiar sound brings comfort, but what I’m not prepared to find is Finn at his brother’s side, planting a camellia. Despite the early hour, both men have already worked up a sweat, straining until the hefty root-ball finds proper footing.
“One down, four to go,” Fisher says, turning my way. “Ready to get dirty?”
He’s definitely kicking this up a notch with this R-rated version of our childhood joke. I let it slide.
“Turning out to be a tough project,” I say, impressed by the scale of the garden. Wrapping the entire hill, the top labyrinth is partly ringed now by a substantial four-level wall of stone, something I’d expect to see on the Ole Miss campus or a historic homestead, but nothing I could have imagined here at my family’s farm. The large gray boulders are no easy weight to haul, so a five-man crew has been brought in to manage the task with a Bobcat. “Skid-steer? Seriously? Had no idea it would be this intense.”
“Yeah, well . . . you know Chief.” Fisher stands. “Go big or go home.”
Finn stands too and heads my way, pale-white scars still etched across his cheeks. “Long time no see, old friend.” He removes his glove and his hand reaches mine.
I try not to react to the tight texture of his palm, the long-healed layers stretched thin. The damage draws pain within me, but I smile. “It’s so good to see you, Finn. Fisher still making you do all the work?”
“Don’t you know it.” He elbows his brother, and they share a good-hearted jab at each other’s expense.
“Well then . . . I’m here to help.” This earns me two grateful grins from the men who once knew me best in this world. Better even than Chief and far better than Reed. Reed never saw me swim in the creek, climb a tree, or catch a bream. Reed never helped carve my initials in the fence post or search high and low when my dog Huck went missing. Reed, I now realize, never knew me at all.
As the three of us construct the garden, Finn’s scars keep drawing my eye. It’s been so long since I’ve seen those stark-white marks where pigment was scorched away. When Finn catches my gaze, I turn. “It’s all right, Lovey. I’d stare too.”
He’s caught me off guard, and I stammer, “I’m sorry, Finn. It’s just . . . it’s been a long time is all.” My eyes must convey what my mouth fails to say because Finn moves closer, this time with his arms stretched wide.
“Aww . . . come here, girl.” He wraps me into a hug that is as comforting as a homemade quilt. “You know I love you like a sister.” I surrender, not daring to resist affection of this nature. “But you’re right about one thing. It has been a long time.” He pulls away now, and I catch Fisher watching us.
“Too long,” Fisher says.
“I’m really sorry, Finn. I shouldn’t have stared.”
He opens his palms, laughing. “You know what Chief always says: ‘Never trust a guy without scars on his hands. Any man worth his salt has banged himself up a time or two.’” We all find humor in this, as Finn erases all tension.
“Tell you what,” Finn continues. “Why don’t we go out to eat tonight? You’ve never met Alice, and she’s been wanting to try that new restaurant on the square. Would earn me back in good graces after missing her cousin’s baby shower last weekend.”
“Doghouse?” I arch my brows.
“Big-time.” He laughs, proof the fire has done nothing to break his spirit. “Seriously. You gotta help me, Lovey. Silent treatment for a whole week. I can’t take another day of it.”
When Fisher shines his irresistible McConaughey grin, I’m sunk. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t help?”
Finn gives his brother a you-can-thank-me-later grin, every wingman’s championship gesture, and I realize my parents aren’t the only ones working behind the scenes to draw Fisher and me together again.
“Still need to pick up petit fours and sandwich squares.” Mother nudges me to the car while reading her list of errands. She’s moving a mile a minute, checking her watch. “Party starts in two hours.”
“We’re doing good,” I say, trying to ease her stress. “Already made the place cards, finished the centerpiece, and wrapped the charms.” I load the last box of gifts into Mother’s Infiniti. Then I close the liftgate and we’re on our way.
After a quick stop at the bakery, we head for Bitsy’s house. Just north of town, it’s a custom two-story she and Whitman built a decade ago. The home stands exactly as I remember, and despite requiring extensive upkeep to maintain its grandeur, the property is meticulous. While she hasn’t touched a flower bed since the day Blaire called us dirty, Bitsy has long been admired for the pristine landscaping, with many of the blooms transplanted straight from Mother’s gardens and Fisher’s crew in charge of the show.
Perched high
above the lawn, the broad porch displays full glory too. The architectural pride of every true Southern home, it boasts massive hanging ferns with potted annuals anchoring the door. I park in the side slot, and Mary Evelyn comes to help us unload.
“Happy-happy birthday!” I sing, giving my niece a big hug.
She thanks us both and admits she’s a little nervous about the tea. “Just hope they don’t think it’s too lame. The whole charm school thing? Etiquette lessons? I thought it would be kind of fun, but now . . . I mean, what if they hate it?”
“It’ll be great,” Mother says. “They’ll be happy to be with you. No matter what.”
Bitsy meets us at the front door and takes the bakery items to the kitchen. We follow her through the house, then out to the poolside garden where she’s already set a table for the six teenage girls to dine.
“Pretty,” she says as I position the shallow centerpiece of althea.
“White flowers are Mary Evelyn’s favorite.” I give my niece a wink and hope she feels special.
“You have the name cards?”
I pull an envelope from the bag, and Bitsy assigns each guest to a seat. She looks up and seems sincere when she says, “Thanks for doing the calligraphy.”
“Happy to help.” I smile.
Bitsy has already set the table with antique china, crystal goblets, and polished silver, so Mother finds another task, organizing gifts on a smaller table nearer the pool.
Mary Evelyn paces between the two. “What if no one comes?”
“Oooh . . . then we can have all the petit fours to ourselves!” I tease.
She’s still laughing when she spins around and yells, “Dad!”
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