by Lisa Wingate
He surveys the field. “Couldn’t leave the job half finished. I’ll be done in a couple days. Soon enough to move on.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
His gaze catches mine, and there’s a strange hope there. I open my mouth to tell him why I’ve come back, but he preempts me with a question. “How did things go with your sister?”
“Good and bad. She had a lot of reasons, or excuses, depending on how you look at it, for what she did. But she managed to get together the money to pay what’s owed on my part of the land. I’m keeping the house and the eighty acres, at least for now. Until I’ve had time to think it all through and decide what’s best.”
“Laura and Dale might rent the eighty from you. With Dale working full time, and all the foster kids, the whole two hundred was a little much for them, but they probably could take on the eighty again and look after the house. The kids love the orchard. They pick the berries and the scuppernongs and set up a stand down on the highway, just like we used to. Remember that?”
The memory is as clear as yesterday. The image of us, sun bronzed and dirt covered and knobby kneed, separating our bounty into crates and pints, arguing about who picked the most—this will always be as sweet as the ripe fruit of the mulberry trees.
Its lingering syrup tempts me, but I settle for only a taste. “Luke . . . Gina told me something you need to know.” I don’t wait for him to answer, but rush through repeating what I’ve learned from my sister about the accident. Each word is like a brick, settling on my shoulders, mortared together with heavy globs of guilt. If we hadn’t come home that summer . . . if I had ever admitted to a teacher, a neighbor, a social worker, that my father was frequently too drunk to navigate, and Gina and I drove him around, maybe he would’ve been in jail that day, not weaving down Mulberry Run Road.
Maybe I could have prevented everything that happened.
But if that thought ever occurs to Luke, he doesn’t let it show. He looks down at the ground, as if he’s combing the blades of grass, expecting to dig up answers. “I don’t remember any of that. I just . . . the last thing I remember was Laura and me goofing around in the truck. We knocked over the sodas, and Laura was bent down, trying to throw napkins on the mess, and I reached to grab one of the cups before it spilled any more. That’s the last thing I knew. We all just figured I ran us off the road and the truck flipped.”
“You were avoiding my father,” I tell him again, but he still looks as though he doesn’t believe me. “Gina heard my parents arguing about it. Luke, if you hadn’t veered into the ditch, it would’ve been a head-on collision, and you’d probably all be dead.” My throat swells, and I can’t say everything I want to say. I finally manage to whisper, “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, Tandi.”
I swallow the thorny mass of blame and regret. “And it’s not your fault either.” My arm bridges the space between us as I touch his shoulder. Boomer sits at his feet, resting against Luke’s leg, sensing the tides of pain that still ebb and flow within this man. “My father’s damage has to end here, Luke. We have to end it. I want you to be happy. I want both of us to be happy. It’s the only way we stop living as his victims and start owning what’s ours.”
Luke nods but doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for me, and we share the embrace of old friends, while the dog leans burrows close.
“You go make a good life, Tandi Jo Reese,” Luke whispers into my hair. “A really good life.”
He softly kisses the top of my head before we part.
“I will if you will.” I reach out to cup his face and smile into blue eyes where the clouds seem to be parting . . . or I hope that’s what I see. “I need you to be okay.”
“I think I am.” He nods and grabs a breath of the warm, wet air, his body expanding with it. Taking my hand between his, he holds it a minute, then lets go. “I think I will be.”
We say good-bye, and I turn away, walking down and up the ditch we once crisscrossed on bicycles and red wagons and farm tractors, Luke Townley and me. This land bears the tree castles of childhood dreams, the blood of skinned knees, the imprints of bodies gazing at stars, the sweat of summer days, the tears of broken hearts, the fairy dust of first love.
I feel all of it as I slip into my car, buckle the seat belt, and take one last breath of the old home place before turning the key. Outside, the tractor rumbles to life and Boomer’s excited yips cut the air, but I don’t turn to watch Luke and the dog as they disappear into the dust of the rich blackland soil.
I’m through looking back.
There’s incredible freedom in that, and now I realize that a chain I didn’t know I still carried has been cut free. I’m fully ready now. Ready to become Paul’s bride. To start this new life with no shadows in it.
I touch the box with my grandmother’s wedding dress inside, and the old tobacco tin with its strange bone beads and ancient lace, a link to Meemaw’s people far off in the deep hollows of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A thread somehow tied to my past. A mystery I’ll carry with me into the future.
Passing by the old farmhouse, I smile at reflections in the windows, imagine bringing Paul and the kids here to spend time, to learn the stories, to harvest the scuppernongs and the mulberries. I think of Meemaw and of Pap-pap. I realize that those who have loved us are never really gone. They live on in all the ones we love and all the ways we love.
They are the reason we know how to love at all.
About the Author
Lisa Wingate is a former journalist, a speaker, and the author of twenty-three novels, including the national bestseller Tending Roses, now in its nineteenth printing. She is a seven-time ACFW Carol Award nominee, a Christy Award nominee, and a two-time Carol Award winner. Her novel Blue Moon Bay was a Booklist Top Ten of 2012 pick, and The Prayer Box was a 2013 Booklist Top Ten pick. Recently the group Americans for More Civility, a kindness watchdog organization, selected Lisa along with Bill Ford, Camille Cosby, and six others as recipients of the National Civies Award, which celebrates public figures who work to promote greater kindness and civility in American life. When not dreaming up stories, Lisa spends time on the road as a motivational speaker. Via Internet, she shares with readers as far away as India, where Tending Roses has been used to promote women’s literacy, and as close to home as Tulsa, Oklahoma, where the county library system has used Tending Roses to help volunteers teach adults to read.
Lisa lives on a ranch in Texas, where she spoils the livestock, raises boys, and spends time consulting with Huckleberry, her faithful literary dog. She was inspired to become a writer by a first-grade teacher who said she expected to see Lisa’s name in a magazine one day. Lisa also entertained childhood dreams of being an Olympic gymnast and winning the National Finals Rodeo but was stalled by the inability to do a backflip on the balance beam and parents who wouldn’t finance a rodeo career. She was lucky enough to marry into a big family of cowboys and Southern storytellers who would inspire any lover of tall tales and interesting yet profound characters. She is a full-time writer and pens inspirational fiction for both the general and Christian markets. Of all the things she loves about her job, she loves connecting with people, both real and imaginary, the most. More information about Lisa’s novels can be found at www.lisawingate.com or on the Lisa Wingate Reader’s Circle Facebook page.
Bonus Material
Excerpts from
The Story Keeper,
The Prayer Box, and
The Sea Glass Sisters
CHAPTER 1
This is the glory hour. This is the place the magic happens.
The thought fell quietly into place, like a photographer’s backdrop unfurling behind the subject of a portrait. Its shimmering folds caught my attention, bringing to mind a bit of advice from Wilda Culp, the person without whom I would’ve ended up somewhere completely different. Someplace tragic.
It’s strange how one person and a handful of stories can alter a life.
The tr
ick, Jennia Beth Gibbs, is to turn your face to the glory hours as they come. I heard it again, her deep-raspy Carolina drawl playing the unexpected music of a bygone day. The saddest thing in life is to see them only as they flit away.
They’re always a passing thing. . . .
My first afternoon in the war room at Vida House Publishing was a glory hour. I felt it, had an inexplicable knowing of it, even before George Vida shuffled in the door and took his place at the head of the table to begin the weekly pub board meeting —my first at Vida House. This meeting would be different from all other such gatherings I’d attended over the past ten years at a half-dozen companies, in a half-dozen skyscrapers, in and about Manhattan.
There was magic in the air here.
George Vida braced his hands on the table before taking his seat, his gaze strafing the room with the discernment of a leathery old goat sniffing for something to nibble on. His survey paused momentarily on the pile of aging envelopes, manuscript boxes, and rubber band–wrapped papers at the far end of the conference room. The odd conglomeration, among so many other things, was Vida House’s claim to fame —a curiosity I’d only heard about until today. One of the few remaining actual slush piles in all of New York City, perhaps in all of publishing. In the age of e-mail communication, paper-and-print slush piles had quietly gone the way of the dinosaurs. Digital slush is smaller, easier to manage, more efficient. Invisible. It gathers no dust, never achieves a patina like the slowly fading fragments in George Vida’s relic.
Behold . . . Slush Mountain, the young intern who’d taken me on the new-employee tour had said, adding a grandiose hand flourish. It’s practically a tourist attraction. He’d leaned closer then. And FYI, don’t call it that in front of the big boss. George Vida loves this thing. Nobody, but nobody, touches it. Nobody asks why it’s still taking up space in the conference area. We all just pretend it’s not there . . . like the elephant in the room.
Slush Mountain was an impressive elephant. It consumed a remarkable amount of territory, considering that real estate in Manhattan is always at a premium. Its peak stretched almost to the antique tin ceiling. From there, the collection slowly fanned outward toward the base, confining the conference table and chairs to the remaining three-quarters of the room.
The intern’s information wasn’t new. George Vida (I’d noticed that everyone here referred to him by both names, never one or the other) kept his mountain to remind the youngsters, hatched into an e-publishing generation, of two things: one, that unreturnable manuscripts are unreturnable because someone didn’t mind their p’s and q’s in terms of submission guidelines, and two, that success in publishing is about leaving no page unturned and no envelope unopened. Slush Mountain stood as a reminder that publishing is a labor of love, emphasis on labor. It’s no small struggle to climb to a level where you might discover the next great American bestseller . . . and actually get credit for it when you do.
“Is it everything you imagined?” Roger leaned in from the next chair, surreptitiously indicating Slush Mountain. Roger and I had been coworkers ten years ago, starting out at a publishing house that practically had its own zip code. He was straight out of Princeton, streetwise and sharp even back then, a Long Island golden boy who had publishing in his blood, while I was the doe-eyed, dark-haired newbie who looked more like an extra from Coal Miner’s Daughter than a New Yorker in the making.
I nodded but focused on George Vida. I wasn’t about to be lured into talking in pub board meeting on my very first day . . . or ogling Slush Mountain. I’d never been quite sure whether Roger was a friend or the competition. Maybe that was just me being jealous. I’d been pigeonholed in nonfiction and memoir for years, while Roger had managed to float from acquiring nonfiction to fiction, and back again, seemingly at will.
At thirty-one, I was starving for something . . . new. Some variety.
My cell phone chimed as a text came in, and I scrambled to silence it.
Not soon enough. Every eye turned my way. The moment seemed to last much longer than it probably did, my heart suddenly in my throat and beating at ten times the normal rate, my instinctive response to shrink, duck, back away before a hand could snake out and grab my arm, compress flesh into bone. Some habits die hard, even years after you’ve left the place and the people behind.
I turned the sound off under the table. “Sorry. I usually leave it in my office during meetings, but I haven’t unpacked yet.” The excuse felt woefully inadequate. Doubtless, George Vida’s cell phone had never busted a meeting.
A sudden shuffling, rustling, and muffled groaning circled the table, everyone seeming to prepare for something. A horrifying thought raced past. What if cell phones in a meeting are a firing offense? Silly, no doubt, but I’d left my previous job, my apartment rent was due in a week, and over the past few years, I had sent my savings, what little there was of it, to a place where it would only prolong a bad situation.
“Box.” George Vida pointed to the upturned lid of a printer-paper carton. Andrew, the intern who had given me the tour, snapped to his feet, grabbed the container, and sent it around the table. BlackBerrys, iPhones, and Droids were gently but reluctantly relinquished. No one complained, but body language speaks volumes. I was the class dunce.
Perfect way to meet the rest of the coworkers. Brilliant. They’ll never forget you now. On the upside, they’d probably get a laugh out of it, and it never hurt to make people laugh.
Across the table, the intern swiveled his palms up when George Vida wasn’t looking. He grinned ruefully, giving me what was probably a twenty-two-year-old’s idea of a flirtatious wink.
I sneered back at him in a way that hopefully said, Forget it, buddy. You’re just a baby, and aside from that, I won’t date anybody I work with.
Ever. Again.
The meeting got started then. The usual power play went on —editors with pull getting support for the bigger deals, the better deals, the deals with real potential. Various editorial team members stepped up in support of one another’s projects, their alliances showing. The sales and marketing gurus leaned forward for some pitches, reclined in their chairs during others. I took note of all the dynamics, mapping the lay of the land at the foot of Slush Mountain and, quite wisely, keeping my mouth shut. Stacked in front of me, and in my office, were company catalogs, manuscripts, an iPad, and a laptop that would help bring me up to speed. I hadn’t gotten that far yet, but I would. As quickly as possible. Once the day wound down and the building cleared out this evening, I could dig in uninterrupted, making serious headway before drowsy eyes and a growling stomach forced me to the subway, where I would read some more on the way home.
Short night, early morning. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. By the end of the week, I’d be functional. Mostly. In next Monday’s pub board meeting, I could begin to contribute, a little at a time. Carefully. George Vida did not appreciate braggadocio —I’d done my homework. Buying projects and getting the support to make them fly off the shelves rather than fall off the shelves was a matter of gaining the favor of the old lion.
“Hollis, if you will introduce us to the newest member of the Vida House family, we’ll adjourn this meeting,” he requested, and suddenly I was the center of attention again.
George Vida’s secretary, Hollis —picture Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies, but a couple decades older —rose from her chair, behind her boss and slightly to the right, her close-cropped gray hair making her thin face more angular and imposing. I’d heard she had been with George Vida since 1967 when he took over the family newspaper business and began building it into the multimillion-dollar operation it was today.
Hollis’s long, thin fingers braced in backward arcs on the tabletop, her expression as stoic and seemingly detached as it had been that morning when she’d looked over the folder of contracts and paperwork I’d signed.
Her gaze swept the room. “Jen Gibbs comes to us from the nonfiction arm of Stanislaus International. She brings ten years of experience in memoir
and historical nonfiction. Her graduate work was completed at NYU, where she was the recipient of the Aberdeen Fellowship of Arts and Letters and the Steinbeck Fellowship. We are pleased to welcome her to the team.” Her regard settled on me, though she looked neither pleased nor unhappy. “If you will share a few facts about yourself that are not on the dossier, Jen, we will begin the process of getting to know you.”
“Thank you.” I did a split-second mental debate on whether to sit or stand, then decided standing made more sense, as I could see the whole table that way, and making connections with coworkers is the first critical step to success in a new house.
I recapped my publishing history, all the while backhandedly thumbing for something else interesting to say —something that wouldn’t make it sound like my life was all about work. It was, and I liked it that way. If you love what you do, you don’t mind devoting yourself to it. But at times like this, I did wish I had something more colorful to share. Kids, house, a classy hobby like antique rose gardening or something. A childhood anecdote about where my love of stories began. Something having to do with bedtime tales and that one treasured book received as a birthday present.
It was nice to imagine, but it didn’t solve the problem. When your past is a locked box, introductions are . . . complicated.
I finally settled for a quick recounting of a wild trip to a mountaintop in Colorado to persuade Tom Brandon to sign his celebrity memoir deal with Stanislaus, during an auction between several publishing houses. It was one of the greatest coups of my career, but also the closest I had ever come to plummeting to my death.
“You haven’t really lived until you’ve slid off a mountain on a snowmobile and spent twenty-four hours huddled against a blizzard,” I added, knowing that my new coworkers would assume I’d been desperately out of my element that night in the mountains, which couldn’t have been farther from the truth. After that experience, Tom Brandon knew things about me no one else in my adult life had ever known, but to his credit, he never revealed any of it during the interviews and hoopla surrounding the book. By mutual agreement, we’d kept one another’s secrets. Action hero Tom Brandon was a babe in the woods. And I was a backwoods girl in hiding.
