I watched as the plane banked in a wide arc over Des Moines. The change in landscape from my first visit back home a few months prior was nothing short of miraculous. The long stretches of brown and gray fields had given way to a riot of green, and the beauty was inescapable. We flew over undulating hills, fields planted in neat symmetry, rows of corn and soybeans reaching for the sky. Trees surrounded farmhouses, their various shades of green adding texture and movement to the overall portrait. A series of Grant Wood paintings moved below me, and I sighed, feeling the strange mix of contentment and sadness that was bringing me home to the quiet beauty of this place.
The pilot let down the landing gear, and the sudden clanking jerked my seat partner awake. She lifted her head, strands of her white bob falling into her face before she tucked the hair self-consciously behind her ears. She looked at me and winced. “Did I nap on you?”
My smile was genuine but didn’t reach my eyes. “You did. Quite well, actually.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, putting a hand to her mouth. “How embarrassing. I’m afraid I had a long night last night, and I didn’t sleep well.”
“It’s no problem,” I said wearily. “I understand the long night.” I started to gather my things. I’d pulled out a book before takeoff, but it had remained unopened on my lap. I was too distracted by my thoughts and my upcoming apology tour to read with any focus. I tucked the book into my bag and kicked the bag with my toe until it was fully under the seat. Leaning back, I closed my eyes, waiting to land.
“Are you headed toward home or away from it?” The woman’s voice was gentle, landing carefully in my heavy thoughts.
I thought a moment before turning to answer. “Toward,” I said, nodding. “Definitely toward.”
“Me too.” She straightened her blouse and sat up straighter. “I’d expect we will both sleep better tonight.”
I closed my eyes and hoped she was right.
Gigi refused to let me heft my bags into the back of the minivan. When I tried, she swatted my hand with her own and glared.
“I know I look old, but I can still lift a suitcase.” She nodded toward the front of the car. “You just get in and rest. You look horrible.”
I shuffled to the front of the car, knowing she was right about how I looked. After returning from my sojourn across Manhattan and booking my ticket, I had fallen into bed, still in my clothes, only to toss and turn for the waning hours of the night. I slipped into the front seat and glanced at myself in the side mirror. I whistled.
Gigi turned to me when she’d settled into the driver’s seat. “What on earth happened?” she said as she turned the key in the ignition. “You aren’t due back for weeks. And you have dark circles under your eyes. You are not a fussy woman, Grace, but I haven’t seen you without concealer since ninth grade.”
I sighed as she pulled carefully out into traffic, making her way to the bypass that would skip downtown and take us to Silver Creek. “Gigi, I ruined everything.” I groaned. “Again.”
I unloaded my sorrowful tale, my tone dry and unaffected. I’d spent so many tears, I was all out. The miles peeled away behind us as I told Gigi about the rapid rise of Flyover, the meeting with Hedda, the planned photo shoots, catalog, travel. She listened, asking few questions, eyes on the road. Shame burned in my throat as I realized I’d lived the last month in New York in a self-absorbed and self-justified bubble, my texts and calls not nearly enough to paint a full picture of what was going on in my life or in the company she’d worked hard to build.
It was only when I got to the part about vomiting on James’s rug that she allowed a small smile. “Atta girl,” she said, turning to wink at me before returning her gaze to the road.
I swallowed a lump in my throat as I studied her profile. “Gigi, I’m so sorry.” She said nothing so I continued. “I’m so sorry that your beautiful dresses, with their beautiful fabric, are now owned entirely by someone who will discard it all in a heartbeat if that means a bigger bottom line.” I gripped the handle of the passenger door, willing myself to say it all. “And I’m sorry I didn’t call enough when I was in New York. I thought I’d grown out of all that selfishness, but I can see that I’m not anywhere close.”
She shook her head. “I disagree.” She covered my hand in hers, stealing a glance at me. “You messed up, yes. You got fixed on a goal that turned out to be something you didn’t really want. Gracie, this is the plight of the human race.” She smiled at me. “You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. But you are a grown-up, honey. A grown-up with a big, sound heart. The proof is all in front of you: you weren’t able to sacrifice your sewing girls on the altar of the almighty dollar.”
I listened, holding tightly to her ready forgiveness.
“You know,” she said unhurriedly as she exited the interstate and pulled onto the highway that would lead into town. “You’re acting like James owns more than he does.”
I turned to her. “What do you mean? He owns it all.”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “He most certainly does not.” She set her jaw. “Here’s what he owns: he owns the fruit of some long hours of work, some great design fixes, probably some memories you’d like to forget.”
My cheeks burned, remembering how not even twenty-four hours prior, I’d been eating with James and kissing him at his table.
“He has that big lofty office in New York City where you worked, and he has lots of deals with lots of buyers. And a really smelly rug. Don’t forget the rug.”
I laughed, rueful. “Other than the rug, it sounds like he came out way ahead.”
She shook her head. “He owns some ideas, but only the ones you’ve shared with him during the last few months. There are plenty more where those came from, I’m guessing.” She slowed as we passed a group of deer feeding in the twilight, careful to watch for their sudden movements until we passed. “Don’t let him take more than he has, Grace. You still have all sorts of things. You still have the bright, curious, gifted mind God gave you. You have a hometown full of people who love you. And you have mercies that are new every morning. That’s not my promise, mind you. That’s a promise from God Himself. New morning, new mercies. That’s the deal.”
“I know. God and I are on better terms these days,” I said quietly, finding the words less foreign on my tongue than I anticipated.
Gigi watched my face and was silent, though I could see her shoulders relax, like a well-worn weight had lifted from her.
The night was midnight blue on the fields around us, and I could see a smattering of lights on the horizon. Silver Creek was straight ahead.
We’d arrived home. The porch light was on, beckoning with its soft, clean light. I could see through to the kitchen, where I knew a small counter lamp illuminated scrubbed countertops and a tin of fresh-baked cookies, probably peanut butter impressed with the tines of a fork and sprinkled with sugar. My eyes filled as I knew again how loved I was in this place, how tenderly Gigi would treat me, even though I’d completely messed up.
She leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, just escaping a fat tear that fell in her wake. “Come on in, honey. Tears feel better in your own house.”
I dragged myself out of the car, and Gigi met me, encircling me with her arms as we stood in the driveway. I tucked my face into her neck and she hugged me, waiting for me to feel what I needed to feel.
I sighed. “I think I’ll fall asleep before I even turn out the light.”
“Just as well,” she said as she pushed open the front door to the house that, I knew, would always cushion my fall. “A good night of sleep and fresh mercies tomorrow morning and you’ll have the courage to do what you need to do.”
I wasn’t entirely sure she was right, but as predicted, I didn’t have much time to worry about it. The quilt on my mom’s old bed was all I needed to close my eyes, hands clutching the worn fabric, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
twenty-nine
Sunlight the shade of buttercream filled t
he room when I opened my eyes the next morning. I stared at the ceiling, feeling at once disoriented and completely familiar with my surroundings.
Home. The thought came to me unbidden, and I let out a deep, weary sigh. My route had been circuitous and not without some serious pitfalls, but I had made it home. A bit worse for the wear, I noticed, my eyes still puffy and back muscles stiff from all the travel and sleepless nights. But I’d made it, and for the first time in weeks, I felt a lightness in my chest as I thought of facing the day.
Only one thing on the agenda, really, and though the thought of it made my stomach roil, I knew exactly what I needed to do.
I took a long, hot shower, taking care to scrub the last few days away as I caused the small bathroom to steam up. I let my hair succumb to the curls that were impossible to fight in the humidity of late summer in Iowa. As I applied minimal, soft makeup, I paused every few minutes to jot down notes on the pile of index cards accumulating next to me. I pulled on my favorite pair of jeans, an off-the-shoulder top I’d designed myself but not yet taken into the office at Flyover, and a pair of strappy sandals, and I took to the stairs, clutching my pile of index cards.
Gigi was sitting at the kitchen table, Bible open next to her but long done with her morning reading and neck deep in the day’s copy of the Des Moines Register. She shook her head as she looked up from the news.
“Every day I hope things will get better as I sleep, and every day I find they have not.”
I smiled. “What about those new mercies you were talking about? Aren’t any of those in the paper?”
She laughed softly. “Not exactly. I look elsewhere for those.” She tapped the Bible next to her with one knuckle and rose from her chair, the legs bumping along the wood floor as she pushed them back. “Coffee?” she said, already moving toward the pot.
“Yes, please,” I said, and we moved in concert in the tiny kitchen, Gigi with a large pour of coffee with extra cream and I with the toaster, a quickly scrambled egg, and a thick-cut slice of Canadian bacon. I sat down with my breakfast and Gigi pushed the coffee gently toward me.
“You look pretty,” she said, smiling. “Your eyes are bright and clear. A marked improvement over last night.”
I swallowed a bite of toast. “Thank you,” I said. “My personal goal is to make it through the day without adding red rims to these eyes. Do you think I can do it?”
Gigi paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. After a beat she said, “Not likely. You’re rather emotional these days.”
I frowned.
“However,” she said, one finger up with her addendum, “I’ve found that it’s better to be honest, no matter how horrible you look by day’s end.”
I raised one eyebrow. “That’s it? That’s the wisdom you’re dropping as I make my way to apologize to the man of my dreams?”
She grinned. “See, now? You’re well on your way already.” She patted my arm. “And your mascara is still intact. Good work.”
I shook my head as I continued eating. I was forcing it, despite the jumble of nerves in my stomach. But after the Calamari Incident, I’d eaten sparingly, and I was grateful to find the bacon and eggs smelled good to me. I sipped the last of my coffee as Gigi asked me about my plan for the day.
“That is,” she said, “other than Tucker.”
I felt my heart lurch downward, saddened again for my mistake in letting him go. I sat up straighter in the worn wooden chair. “I need to go to the barn, take inventory, see what I can salvage and what I need to sell or dump.”
“Dump?” Gigi was indignant. “I should say not. All the garments in that barn are handmade works of art. And they’re going with you and me to the flea market this weekend, thank you very much. People around here are already talking about getting Flyover originals before the whole thing goes to pot in China.” Her eyes were flinty, and I knew it would make no difference to argue, but I offered a weak objection anyway.
“James will probably want that inventory. We were swamped with orders.”
Gigi scoffed. “James can have it if he comes over here and gets it himself. I dare him.” She narrowed her eyes at me, both hands on her hips, and I burst into laughter.
“All right,” I said, conceding, “I’ll let him know your terms. He’s never been one for courage, so I’d guess he’ll call it a loss and contact his overseas suppliers with an increased order.” I giggled. “Though I must say, I would love to see him go up against you and the grannies. Goldie would have her way, I’d imagine.”
Gigi sniffed. “Not if I got to him first.”
I rose from the table and washed my dishes quickly under the tap. Smoothing my hair, I turned to her.
“All right. I’m off to humble myself.”
“Is he expecting you?” Gigi asked, giving me a quick hug before handing me the keys to the minivan.
“Not exactly,” I admitted. I leaned against the back door and pushed it open. “But I think I know where to find him.”
Tucker’s crew had been busy. The farmhouse filled my view as I rolled to a slow stop on the gravel driveway. A few men were working on the roof, but the rest of the house was framed and solid. The long planks of siding had been painted a soft white, and the wraparound porch had floors laid that, I knew, would one day gleam with shiny varnish. I walked slowly toward the bare-wood porch steps, already picturing long flower boxes and a huge porch swing with striped pillows. I squared my shoulders, shaking off the impulse to design a house that wasn’t mine and turning my thoughts to trying to repair the mess that was mine alone.
God, please help me get through this, I prayed.
The tall front door, etched glass flanking each side, stood ajar and I nudged it wide enough to walk through. A man was in the light-filled foyer, bent over something that was set up on sawhorses. The saw made a ferocious whine as he finished a piece of baseboard trim. I cleared my throat and he looked up. Removing his safety goggles, he said, “May I help you, miss?”
I swallowed. “I’m looking for Tucker. Is he around?”
A grin spread across the man’s face. “I do believe he is. Boss!” he called, turning his head slightly toward the back of the house but eyes still twinkling and on me.
Tucker came around the corner and strode down the hallway, stopping short when he saw me.
“Tuck, you have a visitor.” The man made it sound like I was the Queen of Sheba.
Tuck and I were adrift, neither of us saying a word but feeling the silence spread between us. Tucker blinked and then looked at the man working with the saw, who was standing with both hands on his hips, watching us as if we were his very favorite television show.
“Pete, this is Grace Kleren. Grace, Pete Miller.”
“Pleasure,” Pete said, taking off a work glove to shake my hand. He winked. “I feel like I already know you, Miss Grace.”
I bit my lower lip and the nervous smile that was forming.
“That will be enough chitchat from you, Miller. Back to work.” Tucker skirted the edge of the sawhorses and opened his hand. “Let’s head somewhere a bit more private.”
He fell into step behind me as I walked onto the porch. I heard Pete mumble something to Tucker about his need for privacy, and then Pete’s bark of a laugh before Tucker closed the front door. He was blushing when he came to stand next to me on the porch.
“Sorry about that,” he said, nodding toward the door. “It’s a little like junior high over here some days.”
I gestured to the house. “It’s really beautiful. You’ve done such great work.”
He nodded, turning a critical eye on the porch ceiling, the large picture window next to us. “It’s coming along.”
“The owner must be thrilled.” I was stalling, but my heart was practically leaping out of my chest and I needed a minute to collect myself. After all these years, I still underestimated how weak my knees became when I stood in front of him, close enough to touch his face.
“The owner is, um, not really paying much
attention most days,” he said, eyes averted.
“Tuck,” I said. My heart raced and my hands were clammy but it was now or never. “I have to say a few things. Do you have a minute?”
His eyes were sober. “I do.”
“Okay. Good. Okay.” I reached into my back pocket for my index cards. Swallowing hard, I began reading. “I’m so very sorry, Tucker. Those are words that would be enough on the playground where we met in elementary school, after I stole your Trapper Keeper or accidentally clocked you during freeze tag. But a simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to be enough this time.”
I pulled the first card off the stack, complete, and moved it to the back of the stack without looking up. “First, I’m sorry for not being clear enough with how grateful I am to you. You helped get the barn into perfect working condition, and you even made it pretty. You took me to Omaha, cheered me on, and flirted with a much older woman, all to help put wind in the sails of my dream.”
I looked up briefly as I pushed that card to the back of the pile, and I glimpsed Tucker’s face, eyes somber. He’d leaned against the porch railing and was watching my face. I continued.
“Second, I’m sorry for taking you for granted.” I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I left Silver Creek years ago when I was pretty much a kid, and in my naïveté, I thought there were lots of men like you. Men who were honest, true, strong, and good to the core. I was wrong. There are not a lot of men like you. You are a gift, and I took that for granted, first for the years when we were growing up together, and then, horribly, as an adult who should have known better.”
I didn’t look up this time, just barreled onward.
“Third,” I said, “I’m sorry I mocked you for praying.”
Heart Land Page 21
