It’s already ten by the time I haul the wagon back to the barn, toting floral wire, foam, and tape along with me. I’ve already clipped black-eyed Susans, Queen Anne’s lace, and butterfly bush from Mother’s gardens, dropping the longer stems into buckets of water that now slosh as I navigate the gravel path. A stash of Sweet William should make a nice contrast against the hefty boxwood clippings, and with hydrangea and ivy looped in, we should be set.
Mother has promised not to peek, so she’s back at the house making centerpieces with friends from the Garden Club. They all stay a safe distance from the barn where I am now enjoying both the work and the peace.
First, I weave a simple wreath of boxwood for each barn door. Then I manipulate wire around nails, adding cuttings to create a leafy perimeter for the oversize entrance. I let the greenery hang loose, a casual swag that evokes romance and innocence, a style Mother will appreciate.
I stand back and take it in, excited to see the pieces coming together. Next, I add a layer of Queen Anne’s lace, its white clusters representative of the bridal veil worn by Mother and Bitsy, never by me. I can hear Mother’s voice, teaching me that the flower is considered a weed by many, but she added it to her wildflower garden intentionally. She claims it has “a rebel heart, its snowflake appearance proof it was never meant to be a summer bloom at all.” With its dark-purple center, this renegade flower represents all things feminine: delicate lace, the symbolic purity of snow, the red stain of suffering, and the long, deep taproot that keeps her growing against all odds.
I’m attaching the final touches when the event planner arrives. Bitsy has been in charge of every detail, but she’s hired this expert to make sure the party goes as planned tonight. With a classy twist of auburn hair and a practical let’s-get-things-done attitude, the middle-aged woman is already on the ball, directing a delivery driver to back in near the barn. Then she instructs her crew to set out ten round tables at their designated marks, each with six seats to accommodate our guests. Two chef’s tables are constructed in the corner; a family table near the front. As she sets the final prop in place, she turns my way. “Have you seen Bitsy?”
“She and Chief are running errands with the kids,” I explain, grateful my father swooped in for the rescue.
“You’ve got the place looking good.” The planner walks past the doors with impressive efficiency. “Mason jars for the vases?”
“Mother’s friends are on it as we speak. Did you get the fireflies?”
“I did,” she whispers, as if even the crew can’t be let in on the surprise. “It’s going to be magical. Promise.”
For the rest of the morning, the team works to make this the most beautiful space imaginable. After draping each table in classic white linen, we secure an overlapping layer of burlap with a rugged twist of twine and ivy, a detail I’ve carried through to the sliding door panels as well. We set the champagne station with sparkling glass flutes and add place cards to every seat, each name hand-printed with delicate loops of black-inked calligraphy, a skill Mother taught me in middle school and one that has proven an asset more times than I can count.
A tasteful mix of vintage china and silverware is arranged at every setting, stirring memories of Sunday suppers and backyard potlucks. The chandelier is the capstone of the entire display, a handmade combination of Mason jars with holes in the lids. By the time the party starts, a company that specializes in such things will have filled each jar with a healthy stash of fireflies. If all goes as planned, the lightning bugs should begin to flash just before sunset.
“And here’s the best part.” The planner demonstrates how every jar in the chandelier is easily removed from its attaching hook. “We’ll be able to distribute one to each guest. Then we’ll release the fireflies into the pasture. Just as you suggested.”
“Wow! I was just brainstorming. I had no idea we could really make it happen. My folks are going to love this!”
“Hope so.” She seems as excited as I am.
But as my fantasy becomes reality, I get a sinking feeling that I’ve just put hundreds of fireflies in harm’s way. “It won’t hurt the bugs, will it?”
“The company has a fantastic reputation. They breed them specifically for this purpose, and then they set them free.”
My expression must reveal my concern because she smiles and adds, “Let’s face it . . . Kids have been doing this for generations. It’s all good.”
By midafternoon I’ve added long purple trusses of butterfly bush and dotted the remaining spaces with bright-yellow black-eyed Susans.
“Goldsturm. Good choice.” Fisher approaches from behind and offers me a glass of iced tea from the kitchen. I gratefully accept. “Sweet William too?” He smiles, and gosh, he is some kind of charming.
“It’s kind of a sentimental thing. Mother used to tell us stories about black-eyed Susan and her one true love.”
I recite a verse from the familiar childhood poem. “‘Though battle call me from thy arms’”—and just like magic, Fisher chimes in, finishing the lyric with me in tandem—“‘let not my pretty Susan mourn.’”
I’m speechless.
He shrugs. “What? You think men don’t know poetry?”
“Um, yeah.”
Laughter now. And then his confession. “All right, I admit, I had to recite it for a college class. Did a project on literature and landscaping. I wasn’t too into it at the time, but apparently, it seems to have served a purpose.”
Again we speak in sync: “Go figure.”
“We’re turning into one of those old couples who finish each other’s sentences,” I say.
He moves closer. I step back, regretting the word couple and quickly reverting to neutral turf. “Mother used to sing the poem to us when they would bloom each year. Supposedly, William returned from war to dry Susan’s tears. They’ve bloomed together ever since, with ‘a love that never ends.’” I say this with exaggerated drama, waving a handful of blooms in the air while imitating Mother’s fairy-tale flair. “I hope she likes it.”
Handing me a cluster of Sweet William, he nods. “That’s what’s so special about you, Lovey. You’re always thinking of everyone else. Caring more about others—”
“Except the one time it mattered most.” I lower my voice in apology.
“We were too young anyway. Can you imagine? If you had gotten married at eighteen?” He laughs. “What was I thinking?”
How can he defend me, after all the pain I’ve caused?
“I loved you, Fisher. Always.” Now I’ve said too much.
He leans against the rough barn wood, giving me a blue-eyed look as long and deep as the sea. I turn away, trying to maintain a healthy boundary. “I just wasn’t ready.”
He pockets his hands, drawing my eyes back to him. “Are you ready now?”
Every part of my heart wants to shout, “Yes! I’m ready!” But with Blaire still in the picture, I can’t allow myself this fantasy. All I can think about is the sound of Reed’s wife calling me at work and the rage of Reed cursing in the background, demanding she hang up the phone. The last thing I want to do is sidetrack another couple. I can’t and I won’t. So I turn toward the hill and change the subject, my own little version of flight. “How’s the garden? Ready for the big reveal?”
Fisher sighs but follows my lead, looking toward the area where temporary construction panels have been arranged to conceal Mother’s grand surprise.
“He’s such a romantic, my father.”
“Yeah, he told me if I had even a lick of sense, I’d realize romance is the secret to a happy life.”
I laugh. “That’s Chief for you.”
Off to the side, Fisher stomps clumps of dirt from his work boots. “Well, they’ve made it fifty years, so I figure he might be on to something.”
“Yeah, I think Mother found herself the last real cowboy.” It’s an ode to the ideal American man, strong and masculine yet tender and true.
“Nah.” Fisher adjusts his ball cap. “Yo
u just gotta know one when you see one.”
TWENTY-SIX
By half past five, we’re all dressed and ready for photos. My father’s casual suit serves as a perfect match for Mother’s linen dress. Mary Evelyn and Trip are tolerating the adult affair like champs. And no one outshines Bitsy. With her tightly tailored seersucker, she will surely turn heads.
“Stunning,” I say, snapping photos while I stand back in my summer-gray Eileen Fisher—one of my favorites. The kids are all smiles, but Bitsy checks the clock, growing more anxious with each ticking second. She’s already downed two glasses of wine, and the party doesn’t start until six. Mother gives me a worried look as Bitsy pours herself a third dose of pinot.
“I’ll never forgive him. Not for this.” She stares out the window, but there is still no sign of her husband. I have neither seen nor heard from Whitman since Mary Evelyn’s birthday party, and Bitsy’s excuses have worn thin. This seems to be the final straw, and I don’t blame her. Apparently, she can take a lot behind closed doors, but if there’s one thing Bitsy won’t tolerate, it’s being humiliated in public like this.
“Don’t worry. If anyone questions, we’ll just tell them the truth.” I glance at the kids and hope this little white lie can serve as salve for their hurting hearts. “His flight has been delayed, and he’s sorry he wasn’t able to make it. We owe no one more than that.”
Bitsy looks at me now with grateful relief, but the moment is brief and her eyes go cold again. She takes another sip of wine and glances out the window. “Guests are arriving.”
“Ooh, we’d better hurry!” Mother cheers, as giddy as I’ve ever seen her.
Chief directs us all to the golf cart, a multiuse vehicle that has proven handy on the farm’s rugged paths. With Bitsy’s children dangling from the rear and Mother in the front beside Chief, my sister and I have no choice but to sit next to one another. Our father drives us all to the barn where guests are already parking their pickup trucks and old sedans, high-priced SUVs and luxury sports cars. The parking area alone is a representative mix of the socioeconomic layers that form our town, a complicated community if ever there was one.
Chief steers around the vehicles, going off the path a bit and causing the cart to rock across the uneven gravel. The tilt draws my arm against Bitsy’s, and my spirit reacts. No matter how far two siblings stray from each other, there is a bond that never breaks. I feel it now, and I sense that Bitsy does too. She resists, though, stiffening and scooting farther to the edge.
As we turn the corner, Mother becomes a ball of light. “Lovey, you have truly outdone yourself.” She points out the florals at the entrance of the barn. “And, Bitsy, this setting! I never could have imagined anything so nice. This is what you were born to do, girls. How could anything be more perfect?”
I try to catch Bitsy’s eye with a smile, but she heads straight for the wine bar, anxious for another sip.
Chief helps Mother from the cart and she immediately begins to greet guests. She is kind to reintroduce them to me, reviving all the hometown connections I’ve let fray through the years. One by one, they welcome me home, insisting this is where I belong.
There’s the optimistic public librarian who came early to lend a hand, and the hilarious Wilson twins who already have everyone in stitches. The local tennis pro whose energy is contagious, and the kindhearted preacher who baptized Bitsy and me. Mother’s sorority sisters, a few of Chief’s football buddies, some old law partners from my father’s days at the firm. The men from Coffee Club, ladies from Book Club, and loyal friends who have shared fifty years of the couples Sunday school class with my folks—even the widows and widowers remain part of the group, sticking together. My spirit is warmed by these generous servings of compassion, a community of souls who still claim me as their own.
While I’m grateful my parents have such loyal friends in their lives, I’m also ashamed these guests have spent more time with Mother and Chief than I have. Even more upsetting is they aren’t yet aware of my mother’s diagnosis. We’re all supposed to put up a solid front, as if everything is normal. But it’s not.
I’m handling the waves of emotions fairly well until Fisher and Finn arrive. While I’m pleased to see Alice, it’s the first time I’ve seen Blaire in decades. No matter how much I try to think of her as a mature adult, all I see is the snob who stole my sister and never let go. On some level, I’ve always blamed her for Bitsy’s change of heart, even if that’s not a fair place to aim.
When Fisher reintroduces us, Blaire offers a polite hug. “I still feel like I know you, Lovey. How creepy is that?”
“Quite,” Bitsy says, joining us with another glass of wine and a veneer smile. She can’t even keep the peace for one night. One night! I swear I have half a mind to take her out behind the barn and tell her if she messes with me again, I’ll let our guests know the truth about Whitman. Give her a dose of her own medicine for a change.
Instead, I manage an awkward grin. “Nice to see you, Blaire. It’s been a long time.” My stomach twists in knots. One thing’s for sure. Blaire’s Zumba figure explains why Fisher would consider marrying a woman he doesn’t love. I could do yoga for the rest of my life and I’d still never look that good in a dress.
Thankfully, Mother steps in to save me, redirecting my attention to a friend from the florist shop, proving once again I need my mother more than I sometimes like to admit. I smile, share small talk about the flower business, and hope no one notices the sweat beading across my hairline. It’s all I can do to avoid Blaire and Fisher, so I’m more than relieved when Chief clinks his fork to his glass and offers an official welcome, inviting us to follow him out for his big surprise “before night falls.”
Guests gather around the viewing area, and Chief explains his plan. “Y’all know those shows on TV where they come in and do some kind of landscape project?” He winks. “Well, it’s time for the big reveal.”
“Five, four, three . . .” Trip leads the crowd in a countdown, and the energy surges around Mother. She shuts her eyes tight while Fisher and Finn shift the wooden screens out of view. As their beautiful garden is exposed, the guests ooh and aah. I, too, am in awe. The winding path is wide enough for the golf cart, rising up the slow slope with just enough angle to give depth to the design. Along the way, specific flowers have been layered to form a sensual timeline of our family’s most important memories, tracking a lifetime of lessons and love.
When Chief gives Mother the go-ahead, her eyes pop open and her hands fly to her mouth, bringing joy to everyone, cheers all around.
“You’re probably thinking the last thing you need is another garden,” Chief says, “but this one’s a little different.” Then he speaks to the crowd. “I’m betting all of you have received Laurel’s ‘Just Because’ arrangements, maybe her centerpieces, corsages, or whatnot.”
Juke shouts out, “Can’t believe you know those big words, Chief!” Everyone laughs, recognizing the special friendship these men have long shared.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned by helping Laurel garden, it’s that every seed is a story. I sure as heck can’t tell one purple flower from the next, but Laurel, well, not only can she tell you its name, she can tell you when she planted it, where it came from, and how long it should bloom before the petals fade. Half her plants have been passed along for generations, many from friends—including some of you.”
Mother kisses Chief on the cheek. She’s what Marian would call a “bundle of positivity.”
“With Lovey back in town, we’ve spent the last few weeks making road trips, traveling back in time a bit.”
“Preach, Brother Sutherland. Preach!” Trip teases, drawing another round of laughs from the crowd. Chief gives him a playful wag of the finger, but we all know he’s not in any real trouble.
“I hope you’ll continue to tend this farm long after we are gone,” he says to Trip. And to me. “I also hope these flowers will continue to tell our story because, when you think about it, if
the story lives on, so do we.”
He points out the redbud, my grandmother’s hydrangea, and the empty arch that represents the missing wisteria. He shows off a camellia room, much like Welty’s. Then jasmine, gardenia, and the mock orange. The plants are numerous, the stories are too, and all lead us up to the top-level labyrinth with its symbolic spiral of stones.
At the crest of the hill, we reach the semicircular perimeter wall. A half arc, the sizable barrier has four levels, two of which are suitable for sitting. Many of the guests find a place to perch, sipping wine and enjoying the evening. I join them, settling against a section that has been shaded from the sun. Its cool stones offer comfort after a long day’s work. Those who have avoided the climb can still see and hear my father clearly from barn level, so no one is left out as he explains this last section of his gift.
“I’m not nearly as good with words as Laurel is, so y’all forgive an old man for getting my daughter Lovey here to help me with this speech. She’s put a little shine to it, as she likes to say, and I just hope I don’t redneck it up too much. Aren’t we all glad she’s home again?”
More nods with kind eyes, which in turn brings warmth to my cheeks. Bitsy tilts her glass, smiling as if she’s got a pouch of venom in her mouth. I don’t let her sink me.
Chief gives credit to Fisher and Finn, thanking them for their work. Between the brothers, Blaire smiles. My throat tightens in response, but Chief soon brings me back to what really matters.
“Now, I’m gonna get serious for a minute here. I’ve got something to say to my grandchildren.”
Bitsy pulls Mary Evelyn close, a gentle moment of nurturing that is not lost on me. The absence of Whitman is clear to everyone, and I, too, find it hard to forgive him. Trip fidgets off to the side, trying to play it cool, but his bottom lip is pulled sideways, between teeth, and I imagine his father’s no-show is weighing heavy on his heart. When he looks my way, I cross my eyes with a silly scrunch of my face, trying to ease his hurt. It works.
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