Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “What do we see when we look at this garden?” Chief pauses, then answers his own question. “Flowers? Stems? Some leaves? That’s the part we notice. But what’s going on under the surface?” He keeps his focus on the kids. “We don’t always see the miracles taking place around us, within us. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t happening.”

  Trip kicks at a barren plot of soil near my feet, and sure enough, the tip of a crocus bulb emerges from the soil. He quickly tucks it back beneath mulch. Lesson learned.

  “There will come a time when you’ll feel invisible, unseen,” Chief continues. “A season when you’re buried in pain, or fear. Or loss.”

  “But seasons change,” Mother says. “And when we are in those dark, scary places, we always have a choice.”

  “Grow!” Mary Evelyn swings her arms up high and wide, with uncharacteristic drama, as if she, too, is beginning to bloom beyond her shy nature.

  “Yes indeed.” Mother smiles proudly. “No matter how bad life gets, we must always, always, always continue to grow, preparing ourselves for our next big bloom.”

  I reach for an elegant gardenia, the sturdy leaves a base for her milk-white gloves. In sight of this debutante’s fragrant blooms, a batch of bold-toned zinnia have begun to rise, a rowdy crew of rule-breakers that stand in contrast to the highbrow gardenia.

  Mother points them out and continues. “All these flowers you see tonight . . . Wasn’t so long ago, they were locked in tiny seedpods. They could have stayed right there, hidden away in that dark, cold shell. It was a familiar place. Safe enough. But they knew they were born for more. And so they took a chance. And they broke free, determined to find the light.”

  “Y’all see why I built her a garden?” Chief boasts. “Now let me tell you why we invited you here to see it.” He clears his throat, then softens his tone. “Laurel and I, we built this farm together, board by board. Reared our two girls here. Welcomed many a friend through the years.”

  One guest’s cheer is followed by his cohort’s hearty, “Hotty Toddy!”

  Chief lifts his glass but then grows somber. I pull my hands to my lap, clenching my fists as he looks at Mother. This is all becoming much too real. “What you don’t know is that Laurel has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer.”

  This brings a different reaction entirely. Some friends gasp, others reveal looks of distress.

  “The prognosis is . . . not good,” Chief continues. All eyes fix on Mother, many narrowing with concern. “After a whole heckuva-lotta prayer, Laurel has decided against treatment. Instead, she’s chosen to live each remaining day to its fullest. A brave, strong forward march.”

  Mother offers quiet affection to those around her, assuring them she’s at peace with all of this. The rest of us are not.

  “So we invited you here tonight, to this memory garden, not only to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, but to celebrate Laurel’s life.”

  Chief turns to Bitsy and me now. “I can’t imagine this world without your mother. If I had my say, I’d go first so I could hold the door for her, and I’ve been asking the Big Man for that favor.”

  Mother leans close, and he supports her fragile frame. “But I’m not the coach. Never have been. All I can do is find comfort in the lessons Laurel has taught me and accept there is no reason to fear the changing seasons.”

  “Amen.” The actual minister nods sincerely. Others do the same.

  “So, with that, I offer another toast.” Chief lifts his glass and we follow. “To the devotion, compassion, and kindness Laurel offers all of us—a perennial kind of love.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Once the guests have explored the garden and shared many a memory, some humorous, some sad, we make our way into the barn for dinner. The entire display is breathtaking. No client event at Apogee could top this backyard soiree, and part of me thinks I really could begin again here. Move home, launch a flower farm, open a yoga studio, maybe even host events right here on the property.

  As the evening progresses, I do my best to avoid Blaire, but at one point my eyes meet hers and she smiles my way. I return the kindness as guilt scrapes against my teeth. “Stay open,” that’s what Marian said. So I finally expose my heart again, and look what it gets me!

  I’ve tried to uphold safe boundaries, but I never should have entered such dangerous ground. It’s a ridiculous childhood fantasy, believing in second chances and happy-ever-afters and some perfect soul mate who could be “The One.” It’s high time I move beyond those childish notions of flower farms and the boy next door. I’ve got a new plan now. I’m going to get through this evening with as much grace as I can muster, focusing all my attention on Mother. And when it comes to Fisher, I’ll mimic the elf owls: Hide. Play dead. Fly away.

  As the meal winds down, compliments circle the room, with many praising the produce we’ve harvested from the farm. The blueberries were a particular success, whipped into sugary popovers and served as an alternative to the peach-pie squares. The servers continue to dole out champagne, with Bitsy eagerly accepting an ample pour. I’m seated between her and Trip when Mother stands from the family table to offer a toast of her own. Her hands are shaking as she unfolds a sheet of stationery, but she manages to keep her voice steady as she speaks.

  “It’s impossible to top Chief’s surprises, so I won’t dare try. But I’ve made a little list of Fifty Things I Love about this man. If you’d be so kind . . .”

  The entire barn silences, and Mother begins to read one caring thought after another, all in honor of our loyal patriarch. She looks frequently at my father as she reads, the bond between them strong and visible, even after all these years.

  “I love you because you have made me laugh every day for more than half a century. I love you because you let me be me, and you have from the start. I love you for saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and for kissing me good morning and good night. I love you for treating each day together as if it were a gift, not a curse, and for teaching me all there is to know about football, baseball, and, yes . . . even golf.”

  “Hey now.” Chief grins. “Y’all know I drive a mean cart.” Laughter echoes. Despite his athletic talents, Chief is notoriously the last man picked for golf events. Still, it never stops him from hitting the course with friends. He’s learned to take pride in his high handicap and a club head cover monogrammed with the word Duffer—a good-hearted gag gift from Buzz and Juke.

  Mother’s eyes mist over with tears as she continues her offering. “I love you for building me up and for never tearing me down. For seeing my flaws and forgiving them all. For finding the good in me, especially when I struggle to see it in myself. And for showing our girls how a woman should be treated, with dignity and kindness and equal respect.”

  I lift my glass. “I second that!” Bitsy keeps her gaze on Chief, ignoring me.

  “I love you for knowing when to take a stand and when to take a knee. And for always holding the door for me.”

  “Always,” Chief says.

  As she reads through the list, I intentionally avoid Fisher. Instead, I stay focused on my parents and try not to think about the love I’ve lost.

  “I love you for nudging me to pursue my own dreams and for giving me space to grow children, flowers . . . and myself. I love you for all that you are and for all that you have helped me to be.”

  Then she folds the paper and speaks straight from the heart. “I’m grateful you chose me, Jim. Not just fifty years ago, but again and again, every day of our lives.”

  Mother leans to give my father the kindest, sweetest kiss I’ve ever seen, and I’m a ball of tears by the time she pulls away. I’m not the only one. Seems every table is filled with sniffles and tissue grabs, even from these seniors who have surely seen it all by now.

  “We’d better offer a double dose of that champagne!” Chief jokes. Cheers replace tears, and one waiter plays along, pouring the next glass to the brim. It’s a gesture that earns praise and will likely score him a generou
s post-party tip. Then Chief raises his glass and says simply, “To friends and family. Life doesn’t get any better than this.”

  “Friends and family.” We salute, clinking our flutes. I drink in honor of F-words: Friends, Family, Flowers, Farm, and Faith . . . all the ones that mean the most.

  With the party coming to a close, the planner instructs us to choose a Mason jar of fireflies. Then Trip leads everyone out to the edge of the pasture where Chief gives the kids the honor of the countdown. On their mark the lids come off. Many of us have to give the jars a gentle shake, nudging our little friends out into the great, big world just as we did as children, but after a brief transition, the lightning bugs fly free. The effect is magical, and guests exchange youthful smiles as wonder reignites in them.

  Mary Evelyn breaks free too, running through the field, laughing as the bugs flash around her. While Trip would probably enjoy it just as much as she is, he stays back and laughs with the adults, taking photos with his phone.

  I move his way. “Maybe next summer I can take y’all to see the fireflies in the Smokies. It’s a lot like this, but . . . multiply it by thousands.”

  Trip videos, capturing the magical display on his phone while sharing live footage with friends on Instagram.

  “Mind if I see?”

  He tilts the phone my way, and his peers are chiming in with comments, all in real time: “Magic!” “I want!” “Bring me!” It’s much like I described in my Jansana pitch. These viewers are so inspired by Trip’s post, they want to be a part of this experience, this narrative, this story.

  I look around at our guests. Men and women of various ages, a broad range of ethnic and religious backgrounds. Some wealthy, most not so much. Some more fit than others. It’s a mishmash of people doing the best they can each day. But how many have ever bought a Jansana product? Who is selling yoga gear to the average Jane?

  “Trip, let me ask you something . . . If someone recorded a fishing video, showing a person catching a big bass, let’s say . . . would you notice the rod and reel?”

  “Probably.”

  “If they shared a soccer tournament, an incredible goal shot, would you notice the cleats?”

  “Yep.”

  “So if I shared a video of yoga, you think people might be tempted to buy some Jansana gear?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a genius!” I wrap him in an enthusiastic hug, sweet as tea.

  “We did it.” I join Bitsy near the barn.

  She half obliges, propping one elbow on my shoulder. “I’m so relieved.”

  Maybe it’s on account of the fireflies, or Mother’s toast, or the many memories pointed out in the garden tonight, but this simple gesture renews hope for peace between us.

  As the guests scatter to their cars, Bitsy and I load presents into the cart. The crew breaks down tables, folds chairs, and gathers linens for the cleaners. While they work, Bitsy treats herself to a few more glasses of champagne before the carafes are capped, insisting she needs to hold on to the last opened bottle “just in case.”

  It’s obvious she’s still upset about Whitman’s no-show, but she’s been drinking a lot in the weeks I’ve been home, and the pattern is troubling me, especially now as her steps become cumbersome, her behaviors unguarded, her voice too loud. Seeming oblivious to their mother’s indulgences, Trip helps collect the silverware while Mary Evelyn sends every guest home with a Mason jar of perennials. Around us, Mother continues to float on air.

  With the work mostly finished, I step aside and make a quick call to Arizona, eager to share my social media idea with Brynn. Once again, she answers with a cry of defeat.

  “It’s okay, Brynn. I’ve got a new plan.” She listens. “Raw phone footage filmed and shared by the average American.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We’ll do a call for submissions,” I explain. “Reward people for posting their Jansana stories on social media.”

  “Like Snapchat? What are you talking about?”

  “Snapchat. Instagram. Facebook. Maybe others. We ask our end users to show us how they’re enjoying our products.” I watch the guests leave, imagining them trying their first yoga class dressed in Jansana gear, stretching across our fields. “But not only us. Show the world.”

  “I love it!”

  “Good. I do too.” I relax into a smile. “All this time we’ve been trying to set up photo shoots at prime locations. Schedule film crews and find the ideal models. It’s all an act, Brynn. When it comes down to it, we’re trying to sell a more authentic life, but there’s nothing authentic about our campaign. If we want to celebrate real people, let’s show exactly that.”

  “Would trim the budget and solve the location problem.”

  “Exactly. We’ll still put together a proper ad,” I explain. “But we’ll compile clips from cell phone footage instead of scheduling a shoot. Easy-peasy.”

  “What about Prague? And Tokyo? London?”

  “This will transfer beautifully to foreign markets. Think about it. Our international audience will see authentic glimpses of normal day-to-day American life. Unfiltered. Unpolished. Nothing but truth. They’ll be captivated by footage they rarely see. And then we’ll extend the callout to international viewers, celebrate their way of life as well.”

  “Hashtag Awesome!”

  “Let’s hope Jansana agrees.” I lean against the barn, taking a little weight off.

  “We have to convince The Dragon first. Want me to set up a call?”

  “Nope. We’ll take this directly to The Trio. If they approve, we’ll have just enough time to get submissions and meet the deadline. No need to involve The Dragon. She’s done enough damage already.”

  “The campaign isn’t even ours anymore. This could backfire. Big-time.”

  “What do we have to lose, Brynn? I’m not going down without a fight.”

  I move to a quieter area, back by the path of crape myrtles, and phone the president of Jansana. I leave a voice mail on her private cell, explaining my late-hour call and the time-sensitive nature of the plan. “And one more thing,” I say before I end the message. “Let’s keep this between us.”

  It’s a gamble. There’s no guarantee she won’t report this to The Dragon, as Brynn fears. But I’m betting she wants to save her campaign regardless of the impact it has on Apogee, and her only chance of doing that is to take her chances with Brynn and me.

  I exhale and return to the barn where Fisher, Blaire, Finn, and Alice have come back to offer help. The last thing I want to do is end this evening by trapping myself between Fisher and Blaire, so I immediately find an out, adding floral supplies to the pile of gifts in the golf cart. I’ve just turned the ignition when Fisher hops into the passenger seat. “Need a hand?”

  “Not sure that’s a good idea.” My tone makes it clear, but he settles anyway. I can’t help but give him a glance. His dark hair has been trimmed tight above his ears, honoring his rigid jawline, strong neck. He looks like one of the firefighters from the birthday card Brynn gave me, but I refuse to be charmed. Never again.

  “It was nice to see Blaire,” I say, drawing a firm line.

  “Yeah, we should talk about—”

  “I really don’t need to know anything else, Fisher. If you’re happy, I’m happy. We’ll leave it at that.”

  He doesn’t reply, and I drive as fast as I can make this little engine go, not bothering to avoid bumps along the path, intentionally giving him a rough ride. He keeps looking ahead and gives no reaction to my rude behavior.

  “Not many make it fifty years anymore.”

  “No, they don’t.” I say this with a bit of a bite.

  We reach the house quickly, and Fisher helps unload. We stash the floral supplies in Mother’s gardening shed, the one that was built after the fire. Not a single board remains from the original building, and yet all I smell is ruin.

  We leave the door ajar and organize the gear back into its appropriate spots: scissors, clippers, buckets
, wire. It’s not a big job, certainly something I could manage solo, but he works at my side, handing off materials as if I need his assistance. No matter how hard I fight it, each time his hand touches mine, my pulse steadies. He calms me in a way nothing else can. “Fisher, you need to go back to the barn. Find Blaire. This isn’t right.”

  He stops now, holding a Mason jar against his chest until I look his way. “Just hear me, Lovey.” He keeps a kind focus, a hope.

  I sigh, set another container on the shelf.

  “You need to understand.” He tightens his grip around the glass and takes a deep breath. “Some part of me has been waiting all this time. Hoping you’d come home again. Believing that maybe . . . maybe, you might still love me as much as I’ve always loved you.”

  I speak before I can censor myself. “Of course I love you, Fisher.”

  His eyes soften with relief, and he moves closer now, too close. I step back, pinning myself against the shelves, but Fisher presses nearer, leaning in tight enough to kiss me. Energy pulses between us, but I fight the longing. I turn away.

  “Why is it we never seem to find the right time?” As he speaks, his lips are near enough to shape the wind across my cheek. There’s nothing threatening about it, and yet . . . danger. One spark, and we could both go up in flames.

  Before I can answer, Blaire speaks from the open doorway. “Fisher?”

  This cannot be happening!

  Behind her, Bitsy speaks—her words thick and slurred. “Tried to warn you, Fisher. She only wants what isn’t hers.”

  “Stay out of it,” Fisher demands. But she moves toward him, finger in his face as Blaire observes in silence.

  “You think you know my sister?”

  Fisher stays calm, even though Bitsy pokes his chest not once, but twice.

  “She’s a home wrecker. Ask her!”

  Then she turns my direction, stammering through a slew of vicious accusations. “She uses people. She uses people, and she leaves them. It’s what she does. She already left you once, didn’t she? Ran off thinking she was so much better than you, than all of us. You really think she’s changed?”