by Beverly Long
She looked at her grandmother but the woman’s face was carefully neutral, as if what she cared most about in the world was spreading butter on her roll. Melody felt, more than saw, George shift in his chair, and knew that he’d picked up on the hostile undertone.
“What do you mean, Louis?”
“A couple of them ruined one of our trucks last week. Evidently there’s no word for oil in Spanish,” he added sarcastically.
“They’re migrant workers, Louis,” Tilly said as she dumped another big scoop of potatoes onto her plate. “What do you expect?”
Aunt Genevieve made a choking sound. Grandmother gave her sister a warning look and then carefully laid down her fork. “Tilly,” she said, “they are not migrant workers. Most of them have been with this family for more than ten years.”
“Well, you’d think they’d have learned a little of the English language by now. Live in America, speak American.”
Melody looked at both her grandmother and Bernard, who was shaking his head in disgust. “I’d be happy to help.”
“I knew I could count on you,” Bernard said. He pointed across the table. “Pass me that chicken, George.”
He dutifully picked up the plate and passed it. Melody couldn’t help but notice the nice shape of his hands, his broad fingers with nails trimmed short. When he’d shaken her hand the night before at the beach, she’d felt the rough texture of calluses on his palm.
This morning, she’d woken up with the feel of his hand against her cheek. Her bed had been empty but it was as if his warmth, his gentle strength, had lingered about her. That’s what had driven her to almost jump out of bed, rush through her shower, and literally throw her things in the trunk of her car. The only thing she’d been really careful with had been the photograph, the one that had hung in the office that she and Sarah had shared. It had been found in the trunk of Sarah’s car when the vehicle had been discovered parked at the beach more than a year ago.
It was a simple-enough scene. A cowboy in a long leather coat, his foot perched on a stump stood watching a woman who warmed herself in front of an open fire. The woman’s back was to the camera but the cool evening sun, half-set behind the mountains, had offered the photographer just enough light to capture the man’s profile.
The picture had a haunting sense of longing about it. Sarah had loved it, though, and Melody had not wanted to leave it behind in her empty apartment.
“If there’s work for me to do,” George said unexpectedly, “I’d be glad to help, too.”
Melody started to assure him that it wasn’t necessary but stopped herself. The man would be bored silly sitting in the house with Grandmother and Aunt Genevieve. She watched as Grandmother looked to Bernard for instruction.
The older man, the man who’d been as kind to her as any father or grandfather could have been, cupped his weathered chin with the palm of his hand and considered George. “I’ll speak to Gino,” he said after a minute.
Louis took a sip of water. “Maybe he could help you, Bernard. You’re always complaining that you’ve got enough work for two people.”
Bernard didn’t even answer and an uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Melody looked at George. No doubt he was regretting his offer to play husband. She had tried to warn him.
Grandmother smiled at George. “It’s kind of you to offer, George. I’m sure we’ve plenty to keep you busy. I know I could use some help with one of my chores. You don’t happen to have any experience with animals?”
George nodded. “Some.”
“I’ve always kept a few riding horses but. . .well, lately it’s been a struggle to give them the kind of attention that they’re used to. Do you ride?”
George sat up straighter in his chair. “I have,” he said.
Tilly, who’d been wiping her plate clean with a piece of bread, paused. “I thought horses were finicky. That it takes them a long time to warm up to anybody new. Exactly how long are the two of you planning on staying?”
With a loud scrape, Aunt Genevieve scooted her chair back from the table. She stood up and whistled, and the cat, which must have been under the table, jumped from the floor to the woman’s skinny shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter how long, Tilly,” Aunt Genevieve said, her voice hard. “What matters is that they’re here.” She looked at her sister and Melody caught the gleam of tears in her great-aunt’s watery blue eyes.
For the first time, Melody thought about how difficult it must be for Genevieve to watch her sister have to give up the things she loved, to have to slow down. It had to be a startling realization that they were both of an age where frailty and ultimately, death, beckoned.
When Tilly and Louis turned to stare at Aunt Genevieve, Melody pushed her chair back suddenly, unwilling to let them examine the woman too closely. It was her right to grieve without these two intruding. “I’m going to get our things from the car,” she said.
Before she could barely move, George was standing next to her. People were popping up like jack-in-the-boxes. “I’ll carry them,” he said.
“Your old room is ready,” Grandmother said. “If you don’t mind, while you’re unpacking, I think I’ll lie down for a while.”
The grandmother she’d known would have suggested a walk through the fields or a trip into town. It made her realize how life had changed, and she was grateful that she’d made the decision to come home, that she hadn’t had to disappoint the woman. “I’ll see you later,” Melody promised. “After I show George around.”
“That would be fine, honey.” Her grandmother stood, more sedately than everyone else had. “I’m so happy to have you here. We all are.”
Melody doubted that Louis or Tilly shared her grandmother’s sentiments but she refused to let it bother her. She’d keep out of their way as long as they kept out of hers.
On her way through the foyer, Melody grabbed her keys from the entranceway table. She reached for the door but George, hot on her heels, reached around her and opened the door for her.
He was way too nice for this family.
“I tried to tell you,” she said as they walked outside.
He shrugged and didn’t look overly concerned. “Bernard and your uncle Louis don’t seem particularly fond of one another.”
“It’s been that way for years,” she said. She pressed the trunk-release button on her key ring. The trunk sprang open and George stopped abruptly and grabbed for her hand. Heat streaked up her arm.
“What?” She turned and looked at him. He was staring at the trunk, like he half expected a monster to emerge.
“How. . .” his voice trailed off.
“How much stuff?” she finished his question, wanting to be helpful. “Not that much. Two suitcases, a box of books, and another box of miscellaneous. Come on,” she said, and attempted to pull him forward.
It was like a hungry ant trying to carry home a slice of bread. Too little against way too much.
“George? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head.
“Are we going to get my stuff?”
“Sure.” He started walking but he didn’t let go of her hand. When they were three feet from the car, he moved fast, stepping in front of her, placing himself between her and the trunk.
Oh good grief. What was his problem?
“Let me,” he said, reaching into the trunk.
“If you can get both suitcases, I can carry the books and the other box,” she said.
“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t be lifting,” he added, his tone a little gentler.
She wondered who he thought had loaded all the stuff into the trunk. “Oh, fine. Can I at least carry that?” She pointed at Sarah’s photograph, which she’d wrapped in a brown sack from the grocery store. “It’s very light, I promise.”
Before she could move, he’d reached into the trunk and pulled out the sack. He held it in his hands a minute longer than necessary and suddenly, as odd as it seemed, a whiff of pine
floated past her.
“Do you smell that?” she asked.
He frowned at her. “What?”
She grabbed for the photograph. “Never mind.” She was losing her marbles. She walked around the car to open the passenger-side door.
“I’ll get my camera,” he said, coming up fast behind her. He reached around her, grabbed the box, and slung the strap over his shoulder. Then he walked back to the trunk, hauled both suitcases out, and picked up one with each hand.
They were halfway to the house when the door opened and Tilly walked outside. Melody prepared herself for another smart remark but Tilly just brushed past them. When they got to the door, Melody turned around and saw that Tilly was checking the mailbox.
She led George directly to her room on the second floor. Grandmother hadn’t changed it much in the last couple of years. The walls were painted a light yellow and the white comforter with small yellow and green flowers looked as thick and warm as ever. Next to the bed was a sturdy nightstand with a phone and her old clock radio. Across the room, her cherry wood dresser, obviously freshly polished, gleamed as the bright afternoon sun bounced off of it. The thin, white ruffled curtains had been pulled back and the window was open a few inches, letting in the fresh spring air.
It was a girl’s room and George Tyler looked big and uncertain standing in the middle of it. Still holding the two suitcases, he turned around, taking it in. His eyes rested on the Raggedy Ann doll that sat in the corner of the windowsill. It was missing one leg and someone had taken a scissors to her hair.
“It was my mother’s,” she explained, sure he must think her silly for hanging on to such things. After her parents’ deaths, her grandmother had given it to her. She had clung to it night after night and cried. Until it seemed like she just couldn’t cry anymore.
He bent his knees and set the suitcases on the floor. When he straightened, she noticed that his right hand rested on his camera and his thumb stroked the worn case almost absently. “I imagine she’d be glad to know that you have it,” he said, his tone somber.
His eyes held the look of a man who’d known loss. “George?” she asked, not wanting to intrude.
“Where do you want your cases?” he asked abruptly, letting her know that he didn’t intend to let her get too close.
She waved a hand. “On the bed is fine. I’ll unpack later. But definitely before I. . .we. . .go to bed.” Like a fool, she felt her face heat up.
It was one thing to sit at a table and pass him off as her husband. It was a whole other thing to sleep in the same bed. She’d been so worried about him meeting her family that she hadn’t thought the whole thing through. Her grandmother would expect them to share a room, to share a bed.
Her legs suddenly feeling weak, she sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress squeaked under her weight. This was perhaps even more awkward than the morning she’d walked into her friend’s restaurant, smelled bacon cooking, and promptly thrown up on the straw dispenser.
“I guess the fair thing to do,” she said, determined to not make it harder than it needed to be, “is to take turns sleeping on the floor. It’s no big deal,” she said hurriedly. “The carpet is clean and thick and I know where my grandmother keeps the extra blankets. It’ll be like camping.”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Her baby, almost like he or she had heard the comment and liked the idea, did a little flutter kick. She spread her hand over the roundness. “Jingle here thinks it will be fun.”
“Jingle?”
“I wanted to call him or her something other than the baby. But I didn’t want to set him or her up for gender issues later on.”
“Beg pardon?”
She’d read that phrase in a book before but she wasn’t sure she’d actually ever heard anyone use it. It should have seemed odd, sort of feminine or something, but from George, it seemed right. Polite. Very gentlemanly.
“I didn’t want to call him by a girl’s name if he’s a boy or a boy’s name if she’s a girl. So I came up with Jingle. You know, ‘Jingle Bells’ and all that. I found out I was pregnant right before Christmas.”
She gave her belly a little pat, letting her child know that she appreciated the acrobatics.
He rubbed his chin in contemplation. After a minute, he said, “I imagine Jingle expects his or her mother to sleep in a bed.” His eyes shifted downward. She realized that it was the first time that she’d seen him really look at her belly. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t seem to look away. However, when he realized that she was watching him, he turned a pretty shade of rose, starting from his neck to the tip of his ears.
“I was almost sixteen weeks along before I started to show,” she said, trying to make conversation to put him at ease. “Even then, I was able to wear my regular pants as long as I kept the top buttons undone.”
He nodded and she saw that his green eyes had taken on the same intensity she’d seen that first night at the beach. It was like she was telling him something important, something he needed to know. And she realized it was the first time she’d shared any of the details of her pregnancy. Before, there’d been no one who cared. “Now, six weeks later, I’ve given in to elastic waists and loose shirts. Most people probably just think I’m plump.”
He shook his head. “Your arms and your face are still slim.”
It was silly but it seemed nice that he’d noticed that. She resisted the urge to tell him that her normal 34B-cup breasts had somehow turned into a full-fledged C-cup. If he started staring at them, she’d be the one whose face would be turning pink. “Here’s the deal,” she said, redirecting the conversation back to where it had been. “Whether I’m sleeping on the floor or in a bed, it’s all about the same to Jingle so it’s crazy not to take turns.”
He looked her in the eye. “If there’s sleeping on the floor to be done, I’ll be the one doing it.”
He’d said it in a way that made her realize that it would be useless to argue. “Fine. I’m going to wash my face while you get the rest of our things. Don’t forget your things from Target are in the backseat,” she added.
Once he’d left, she immediately walked into the attached bath. She didn’t really need to wash her face but she figured if she’d told him that she needed to pee, he’d have sunk right into the floor.
The man seemed to embarrass awfully easy. Once her bladder was empty, she washed her hands. In the mirror that hung over the long vanity, she saw that her grandmother had painted the bathroom at some point. It had been a dull taupe when she’d left and now it was a beautiful sage green. The goldenrod-colored fixtures that had been there as long as she could remember had been replaced with classic white.
She turned off the water, dried her hands on the thick burgundy-and-sage towel, and walked back into the bedroom. She’d laid Sarah’s photograph on the dresser when they’d come in. She walked over, picked it up, unfolded the brown sack, and pulled it out.
It really was lovely. She held it flat against the wall, like it would look hanging. No. That wouldn’t work. It looked weird next to the dresser. She walked over to the eighteen inches of bare wall that stood between the two large windows. She positioned the photograph in the middle.
She heard the downstairs door slam and then the sound of George coming up the stairs. When he entered the room, she looked over her shoulder and asked, “How’s this look?”
He dropped her box of the books. They hit the floor with a jarring thud.
He didn’t look like he even noticed. He was staring, first at the photograph, then switching to her, then back to the photograph again. His eyes moved so fast, it made her dizzy. “What’s wrong?” she asked. She pulled down the photograph and turned to get a better look at him.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, his voice husky.
If he’d been pink before, now he was so pale she wondered if somehow his blood had all seeped out. If she looked out on the stairs, would there be a trail leading from the car to her
bedroom?
“It was Sarah’s. It hung in our office. When they found her car at the beach, this was in the trunk.”
He walked over, took it from her, and ran his fingers lightly across the photograph. It surprised her when she saw that his hand was shaking.
She sniffed. There was that smell of evergreens again. Someone had to be trimming trees somewhere. It was just odd since there weren’t all that many evergreens in this part of the state. She walked over to the window and closed it.
“It’s nice, don’t you think?” she asked, motioning to the photograph. “Even though it’s in black and white,” she rambled on, wondering exactly what she would do if all six feet of him decided to topple over. “I can just imagine what the sky must have looked like. Probably a mass of reds and oranges.”
He nodded and swallowed so deliberately that she could see his throat muscles working. “I expect you’re right,” he said after a deafening moment of silence.
“I’m not sure what this is,” she said, pointing to a series of squiggly lines about an inch from the bottom, on the right-hand side. “At first I thought it was the photographer’s signature but I can’t make it out.”
He looked at the picture more carefully. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding concerned. He carefully laid it on the bed and backed away a step, then another. Hell, if he weren’t careful, he’d back himself all the way out the door and roll down the stairs.
“Grandmother is going to expect me to show you around,” she cautioned. “I don’t want her to think there’s anything odd going on.”
He jerked his head, his eyes shifting quickly from the photograph and settling on her. For a minute, he looked almost wary.
“George, is everything okay? Please don’t tell me you’re going to back out of this now.”
He pulled himself up straight and his broad shoulders seemed even wider, to take up more space, to spread maleness in the midst of what had always been purely female. When he shook his head, she could feel the warm relief flow through her.
