'Til Grits Do Us Part

by Jennifer Rogers Spinola

  “Well, good for him.” I helped Becky push the stroller over a garden hose, remembering Randy in his gray Civil War reenactment garb—and me pushing his sneaky arm off my shoulders. At least he hadn’t sent me any more pictures of us Photoshopped together in a while.

  Becky lifted a bucket of china-white tulips to her nose and sniffed then checked the price. “Besides Shane, ain’t nobody else who sent ya roses, is there?”

  I didn’t answer, fingering a bleeding heart stem. The little pink hearts dangled off the leafy green arch like jewels.

  “What?” Becky put the pot down and turned to face me. “Is there somebody ya ain’t told me about?”

  “No. But I keep forgetting about Shane.” I ran my finger over the hearts, watching them quiver along the stem. “About the roses.”

  “Why? What’s he got to do with anything?” Becky’s eyes popped as she apparently got a handle on my thoughts. “You ain’t suggestin’ Shane is sendin’ ya all this stuff, are ya? He’s a good guy! He was in our weddin’, for cryin’ out loud. He’d never try ta horn in on Adam.”

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t think anything, but…doesn’t he drive a dark green sports car?”

  “Don’t be silly! It ain’t Shane.” Becky pushed me back toward the bucket of tulips. “So do you like these? They look real nice.”

  “They do.” I put one to my nose and inhaled the scent of spring. A fruity perfume, like heady apricot jam. “But I’m sure they’re out of my price range.”

  “Well then carry one.”

  Becky grinned and pushed the stroller through the jungle of plants like an expert, stopping only to fix Macy’s sock and find the pacifier that had submerged itself under the blanket. I watched her there, remembering how we’d met for the first time in an empty church parking lot—where I’d been dumb enough to run out of gas in my rental car. She still beamed that same bright smile, same sassy laughter.

  Which was exactly what a grump like me needed.

  “You’re right.” Becky straightened up. “I’m stumped. Maybe it’s Santa Claus.” She played with a bunch of lavender lisianthus, its roselike whorl of petals matching Macy’s soft corduroy overalls. “You got any enemies then?” Becky rolled her eyes. “Better forgit I said that. Your list’ll take all day.”

  “Hey, any enemies I have certainly aren’t my fault.”

  “Don’t matter. Ya still got ’em.” She shook her head, sizing me up. “I’ve spent all twenty-six years a my life in this town, and ain’t nobody done nothin’ to me but steal my gym shorts an’ hang ’em on the flagpole. But you? So far you’ve managed to git mugged not once, but twice—and then practically shot by Trinity’s psycho ex-boyfriend. What’s his name? Chad?”

  “Chase Fletcher.”

  “That’s the one. You must have a force field or somethin’ that attracts weirdos.”

  “Like I said. Not my fault.” I sniffed the lisianthus, but it didn’t smell like anything. Just leaves. I put it back in the bucket, disappointed.

  “Besides, Chase has been gone for ages. I know he blamed me for breaking them up, but I haven’t heard a squeak from him since last December.” I ran my fingers across a lily petal, smooth as satin. “Anyway, he hated my guts. Why would he send me love messages?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m jest guessin’ stuff.” Becky tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear and gathered a bunch of indigo-blue irises. “Look. These are real pretty. But you’re gonna go with red, ain’t ya? For your flowers?”

  “Red?” My mind hadn’t moved past Chase Fletcher.

  “For your weddin’!” Becky pretended to smack me in the forehead. “Lands, if you don’t have a short memory!”

  “Sorry.” I gave a rueful smile. “Brain overload.”

  “Listen. I jest want you to relax an’ have some fun tonight, ya hear?” She took my arm. “I bet this whole thing’ll blow over in no time. Some silly mistake at the florist. An old high school crush. Somethin’,” she said, scooting the stroller forward. “B’sides, ain’t you the one who always says nothin’ never happens in Staunton?”

  Funny. She was right. And maybe—just maybe—she’d be right about all this rose stuff, too. A week from now it would all be ancient history, and I’d be back to cow tipping.

  “Okay. Well then let me ask you something.” I dropped my voice slightly. “Since we’re talking about wedding stuff.”

  “Or s’posed to be.”

  “Right. Well, it’s about Adam.” I twirled the iris pot around, running my fingers over the sword-like leaves. “Has he always been this…how shall we say…opinionated about things?”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know. Life. Stuff.” I hunched my shoulders in a nervous shrug, not ready to throw my dirty laundry all over the flower shop. “You’ve known him practically all your life, so maybe you can help me understand him. I mean, I love him, but he’s so…so…” I put the pot back, searching for the right word.

  “Stubbern?”

  “Yeah. For starters. And he has all these weird ideas about things.” I flipped a price card upright. “Not that they’re bad ideas. They’re just…different. And once his mind is made up, he doesn’t do much in the way of negotiations.” I thought back to the Virginia Beach honeymoon package fiasco. His crazy “saving a kiss” speech. My mouth tingled, remembering how he’d trailed his finger across my lip.

  Becky tried to hide a smirk. “Sounds like somebody I know.”

  “Who?”

  “You.” She poked me. “Stubborn and hardheaded. And picky, too.”

  “I’m not picky!” My cheeks flushed. “Are you making fun of me? I asked you for advice.”

  “Aw, simmer down.” Becky rested her arm on my shoulder. “I ain’t makin’ fun of ya. But we all got things we gotta work on, Shah-loh. Adam ain’t perfect, and neither are you. You were a real snob when ya first showed up here, you know?”

  I started to protest, but Becky shushed me. “But you had a good heart. We all couldn’t help but love ya. And…well, we’ve been hooked on ya ever since. You’re family now. Always was.” Her eyes softened. “Same with Adam. Ya gotta roll with it. Let him change things on his own, and don’t always demand that he do stuff your way. He loves ya, but he’s gonna make mistakes.”

  “But that’s just it.” I crossed my arms. “I like my way. I know how to do things.”

  I started to blurt something about how Adam didn’t even have a college degree yet then slapped my lips shut. As if my educational background somehow gave me superiority. Ha! I was the one who’d gotten fired for plagiarism while studying ethics, of all things.

  Becky leaned close. “Well then, why are ya gettin’ married, if you like your own way so well?”

  Her question baffled me. I twirled a hanging pot of begonias, watching it untwirl in lazy loops. The layered coral petals, crystalline, twinkled back at me like tiny diamonds.

  “Well, I love him. I want to be with him. But I don’t want to lose my voice and become a…a…pawn. A figurehead. I don’t know.”

  “He ain’t askin’ ya to mouse around and not say nothin’. But ya gotta give a little, too, sometimes, Yankee. Love ain’t all about callin’ all the shots. Makin’ all the decisions and havin’ ev’rything your way like you’re Miss Independent. Men, especially, don’t take to that too well.”

  “I guess not,” I muttered.

  “Ain’t no guessin’. God made a man and a woman differ’nt. And sometimes ya gotta sit back and let him do his job to protect ya. To step up to the plate an’ make some decisions.” She pushed me playfully. “Might be even better than the ones you make. Who knows?”

  I didn’t answer, thinking.

  “I know you’ve lived on your own a long time, decidin’ everything for yourself. But that’s gonna hafta change. A lot.”

  Her voice hushed, almost wistful. “Matter of fact, love’s more about givin’ things up than anything else. Men can be real pains in the neck, ya know?”

  “Te
ll me about it.”

  “Naw, I’m serious. It’s the truth. Why, Adam ain’t no saint. Shoot, Tim ain’t! But if you’re gonna wear his ring, you’re gonna hafta learn to forgive. Stop arguin’ all the time. Be sweet anyway when you git your panties in a wad. That sorta thing.”

  “How on earth am I supposed to do that, Becky?” I ran both hands through my hair. “There’s not a sweet bone in my body.”

  “Sure there is!”

  “No there isn’t. I’m telling you. You were just born that way or something.”

  “Shucks.” Becky laughed. “Ain’t none of us who like to git our feelin’s hurt or follow somebody else’s idea when ours is better. You jest gotta let God teach ya!”

  “How am I supposed to do that? Spell it out plain for me, Becky. I don’t know anything about this stuff. I’ve been a Christian what, a year? Less?”

  “Practice! Ya gotta get in the habit sometimes when it don’t come so natural. Turn the other cheek. Be positive. Smile. Ask God to give ya grace, an’ sometimes to keep your trap shut when ya wanna say somethin’ nasty—’specially when he deserves it! Like any new thing, like ridin’ a bike, it takes a while. But it gits easier, an’ sorta becomes a part of ya.”

  The stroller quivered, and I saw a chubby brown arm flail, intersecting my thoughts. Becky bent over the stroller. “Aw. Look who’s awake.” She reached down to unclip the safety belt and then scooped Macy, still limp with sleep, up into her arms. Resting the little curly head on her shoulder.

  “Finally.” I ran a hand through Macy’s curls, tracing the tip of her delicately curved ear. One chocolate-brown hand, its palm soft and pink, dangled. “I’ve been waiting the whole time for her to wake up. May I?” I held out my arms.

  “Shore ya can.” Becky showed bucky front teeth in a grin. “Just lemme make shore she’s good an’ awake first. She’s a li’l bit crabby when she falls asleep this late. Ain’t ya, sugarplum?” She bounced her shoulder slightly, kissing the back of Macy’s curly head.

  Macy yawned in response, showing white baby teeth poking through pink gums. Then she rubbed her eyes with two brown fists.

  “Come on, Macy.” I rubbed her back and offered my upturned palms. “No?”

  She yawned again, contorting her face like she might cry. And buried her eyes in Becky’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, Shah-loh. She don’t mean nothin’. Just hold on a bit.” Becky shifted her slightly, putting a clean cloth under her shoulder and reaching for a bottle of warm water from a thermal bag. “You see, she’s started stickin’ to us like glue these days. Not wantin’ nobody else.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess.” I stroked my fingers through one of her stray curls. “I miss her though.”

  “Don’t worry. She’ll come around. Adoption agency says that’s actually a real good sign, ya know? When she starts gettin’ attached to us.” Becky’s eyes took on a glassy appearance. “We ain’t been with her that long, and after bein’ passed around from nurse to doctor night and day, never findin’ the same two people to think of as Mama and Daddy.” Becky’s voice trailed off, and she looked away, brushing her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. “Gimme that container a milk, will ya? It’s all measured.”

  “I’ll make it for you.” I poured in the dry milk and twisted on the bottle top, shaking it up as I’d seen Becky do a hundred times. Only I forgot to tamp the end of the nipple, and milk sprayed out, splattering my pretty green-flowered dress.

  I laughed, wiping myself clean with the corner of Becky’s cloth. “Sorry. I’m not a pro like you are.”

  Becky rolled her eyes. “Shoot. I don’t know nothin’.”

  “Oh, you do. You kept the nursery at church for years.”

  “Right. Like feedin’ a bunch of kids Cheerios means I know somethin’. I’m as clueless as they come, my friend.” She shifted Macy up to her chin, nuzzling her cheek. “But you know what? When ya got love and an open heart, that’s all they need. Love covers over an awful lotta mistakes.” She winked at me. “And that goes for the fellas, too.”

  Open heart. Mistakes. Love. My thoughts reeled back to Adam, sitting on that picnic table by the lake when he’d asked me to marry him. Thinking of how many things about him I didn’t have in common, and frankly, would probably never understand.

  And my stomach clenched in a tight ball, glad I’d said yes.

  “We’d better get out of here soon, huh?” I said in disappointment, glancing back at the rose case as I shifted Macy on my shoulder then lowered her back to the stroller. “Macy’s got to get home, probably. And I’ve got to finish up a story.”

  “I reckon.” Becky sighed. “I’m jest sorry we didn’t find nothin’ for ya. We got some ideas though.”

  “Exactly. We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  Becky checked a couple of things off on a little planner she’d designated “Shiloh’s Wedding Stuff” on the cover. “How ’bout decorations for the church? You thought about ’em yet?”

  “Sort of.” I pushed the stroller toward the exit, shoving pots and overeager leaves out of the way. “How should I do it?”

  “If you’re goin’ with somethin’ Asian, it oughtta be real easy. Think about what ya like and go from there.”

  “Like…what? I haven’t been to a lot of weddings. I couldn’t go to Ashley’s wedding, and the Shinto ceremonies I saw in Japan bring back nightmares of giant moon-shaped white hats and too many cups of sake.”

  Becky’s face clouded into a look of absolute pity. “You really don’t know much about this stuff, do ya?”

  “No. I keep saying that, and nobody believes me.”

  “Well, I was thinkin’ more along the lines of candles and whatnot. Maybe some ribbons for the aisles, or ya might wanna scatter flower petals. Stuff like that.”

  “Oh. Sure. Well, Wal-Mart, I guess. Right?”

  “Wal-Mart’s good. Harrisonburg’s got a Target. But you can do the Asian thing, I reckon, if you find cheap enough stuff.” Becky turned to a new page in her planner. “Mama knows some craft place in Charlottesville that might have somethin’.” She scratched down some notes. “She can run ya by next week. Then once Ashley buys them red bridesmaids’ dresses, we can settle on some flowers to match.”

  Becky started to head to the exit then paused by a section of loose-cut flowers for do-it-yourself arrangements. I watched as she stood piecing them together, bloom by colorful bloom, into a pretty bouquet.

  “What do you think a this?” She handed it to me—a striking mixture of pinks and purples—with a bit of yellow statice to brighten it up.

  “It’s nice, Becky. You’re good at this.” I turned the bunch around.

  “Yeah. Well. The Fashion Nazi ain’t the only one who can match colors. I’m learnin’ a thing or two.” She passed me another bunch. “How ’bout this’n? Stargazers smell real good.”

  I sniffed a super fragrant lily, its petals curled back like graceful eyelashes, then put it back. Too much like the smell of Mom’s funeral lilies.

  “You know? Maybe I won’t carry a bouquet.”

  “Why in the world not?” Becky looked up from wiping Macy’s milk-dribbled chin like I’d announced a wedding on Mars.

  “I don’t really like cut flowers. Even cut Christmas trees.”

  “Well, ya shore ain’t gonna carry no potted plant up the aisle,” said Becky, making a face at me. “An’ you say my fashion sense is weird!”

  “Well, that’s why maybe I won’t carry anything.”

  “Why, for Pete’s sake? Cut flowers are pretty, too.”

  “That’s just it. All they do is die. You cut them—and snip! They’re gone. Their days are numbered. Maybe even their hours.”

  I shook a cut stem of a white snapdragon for emphasis, remembering the wind on my unfeeling face as I stood by Mom’s fresh grave. Her photo on my cubicle wall, smiling back at me. Ray’s sad eyes. Kate Townshend’s lonely photo of Amanda on her mantel.

  “A minute ago it was growing and blooming,
but now it’s going to die.”

  Becky fell unusually quiet as she smoothed Macy’s overalls that had scrunched under her legs. A tender gesture probably nobody else had noticed. “I don’t wanna say this the wrong way, Shah-loh, but we’re all gonna die.”

  “Of course we are.” A drop of water fell from the end of the snapdragon stem. “But I prefer not to kill my flowers before their time.”

  “Well, cut er not cut, we’re all goin’.” Becky spoke so soberly that I turned my eyes to her. “Ain’t no stoppin’ it. You know that.”

  “Sure I do, but isn’t it a waste? All that beautiful bloom for what—an hour?”

  “Mebbe in some ways, but…” She gathered a handful of roses and freesia, delicately perfumed, and pressed them in my hands. “Ya gotta remember though—this was their purpose all along. And they did it to their fullest. It’s their gift.”

  I felt strangely moved, standing there with shoppers laughing in the background. And me looking down at those beautiful, doomed flowers in my hands, their glowing colors trembling with drops.

  “But it’s such a waste, Becky!”

  “Or a sacrifice. Depends on how ya look at it. They lived and bloomed, jest like they were made to do. And when it was time to go, they gracefully said yes.”

  She ran her hands over the petals, which gleamed like bits of satin. “We’re seein’ their last magnificent moments and enjoyin’ ’em. If you was a flower, wouldn’t that make ya happy to know you’d done what you was born ta do? Even if ya didn’t get to do it very long?”

  I swallowed hard, thinking of things far deeper than flowers. Thinking of Mom. Of her shining life given over to God. A sacrifice, cut down in its last and brightest hour.

  “One last flourish,” she’d written in her journal. “Ill-timed but unspeakably beautiful in its quiet fanfare…. Come, fall! Come, winter! I am not afraid. I will keep on singing until my last petal falls.”

  The freesia blooms swirled together in a blur, and I turned the bunch over in the light, watching their petals glisten.

  “So I don’t think it’s wrong to carry a weddin’ bouquet. We’re jest rememberin’ why we’re on this earth.”