Sweeter Than Tea

by Deborah Grace Staley

  Will and I had bought the cabin on our honeymoon, with money his parents had given us as a wedding gift. A hand-lettered sign pinned to a cluttered corkboard just inside the entrance of the only grocery store in town had read “We Can’t Stand the Heat—Moving North—Cabin for Sale.”

  On the way out, I’d balanced the grocery bag on my hip and ripped the phone number from the bottom of the page.

  Will crinkled his forehead and looked at me.

  “What?” I smiled at my new husband. “It’s worth a look, isn’t it?”

  In spite of the milk getting warm in the back seat, we drove to the cabin. Standing on tiptoes, we peeked through the thin, ruffled curtains on the bathroom window at pine plank floors and a tiny claw-footed tub.

  The last owners “must have” lavender, planted near the gate, came on a breeze—a sure sign from my grandmother that I should spend summers here, raise children here, get old here.

  The next day, Will feigned meaningful questions to the agent, kicking boards and commenting on the roof. I followed them around the house, saying nothing. I was already imagining myself on the beach, reclining on Will’s chest, watching the stars.

  Will’s parents were furious that we had squandered their gift on a wood-shingled cabin. His mother said the money was for a house—one we could live in, with a garage and a mortgage.

  “So we’ll stay in the apartment a little longer.” Will had knelt beside her and taken her hand in his. “You always said you wished you and Daddy had a place to get away. Don’t you wish you had done this when you could?”

  There’d been no arguing with those dark, dreamy eyes.

  “At least it’s paid for,” she’d said. “Fill it with love.”

  And, we had.

  I turned off the engine and sat with both hands on the steering wheel, suddenly rethinking my decision to come here alone. My oldest daughter, Meaghan, had wanted to come along “to help carry things,” she’d said. I knew better.

  She’d sat on her daddy’s side of the bed and stared at a framed picture of our wedding day. The comforter hadn’t been pulled down on that side in almost three years.

  “It’s too sad, Ma,” she said as she ran her finger over the silver filigreed frame. “You shouldn’t be by yourself.”

  I threw another pair of chinos in my duffle bag and checked out my nightstand, deciding which book to take. “I’m coming with you. We all think . . .”

  “No, you’re not.” I stopped her, knowing where the conversation was going. “I need to do this by myself.” The truth was Meaghan hadn’t seen me cry at all since her father died—neither of my children had. After three years, I wasn’t going to break down in front of her now.

  Meaghan gave a heavy sigh of resignation, and I squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I’ll clean out the cabin and be back by this evening. Meg, I’ll be fine.”

  I’d hoped Meaghan was convinced. I sure wasn’t.

  Sitting in front of the cabin now, I gripped the steering wheel tightly.

  When did my hands get so old?

  The plump pink hands that had diapered babies, baked pies and weeded the garden were now crinkly and dry. An old lady’s hands. I twirled the braided gold wedding band around my finger and wondered if I’d ever be ready to take it off. A ridge was worn around my finger where the ring had been. I heard Will’s voice say, “I told you. You are stuck with me, woman.”

  I opened the car door and pulled in a lungful of stale southern air, heavy with humidity and lavender now grown out of control. Gulls cawed, waves crashed, and children screamed, “Watch this Mama!” from the beach. The screen door slammed behind me as I entered the cabin and stood in the empty space that had been once the center of our family. Except for the pile of my belongings neatly stacked in a corner—the things no one else knew what to do with—the cabin was empty: A straw beach hat. Will’s cane. A white wicker chair with yellow and blue flowered cushions and dog-chewed legs. My summer journal.

  Thirty-five summers reduced to a pile in the corner.

  I picked up my journal and sat down—the wicker chair creaking from my weight. I kicked off my sandals, opened the paisley cover and disappeared into my past.

  July 26, 1976

  We’re here! Our first summer vacation in the new cabin! I was so excited, I packed everything last night so we could leave the minute Will got home from work. I love the simple magnificence of this place—even if it does smell like old people (laugh). I’d like to do some cleaning, but Will insists on a walk on the beach before bed. Tomorrow, I’ll cut lavender and open the windows to help with the musty smell. I hope I can sleep with all this dust . . .

  Will and I had gone to the cabin every time we could those first few years. Long weekends were filled with red wine and dinner on the beach. We made love and fell asleep in the sand and stumbled back to the cabin to make love again just as the sun was coming up. Will read me stories by candlelight while I soaked in the tub and talked about our future . . . the places we’d visit when we could finally afford to travel (Ireland was first on our list). Whether to name our first born after his father or mine (James or Walter).

  We never left each other’s side because too much of Will had never been enough for me.

  March 29, 1985

  I have every window in the cabin open, and I’m still hot. Will has been wrapped in Mama’s quilt and huddled in the corner of the couch since he got here. I, on the other hand, haven’t been comfortable enough to read in ages. I would go lay in the tub, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get out. There is no room left in my body for this child to grow anymore, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it through the next three weeks . . .

  I’d gotten pregnant with our first child at the cabin over the Fourth of July holiday after watching fireworks on the beach and drinking too much rum. It wasn’t a momentous event. We’d made drunken love—short and sweet—and drifted off to sleep without even saying goodnight.

  Now, mere weeks before I was due to deliver, I wanted nothing more than to be in my cabin. Every smell of the city made me wretch, and I longed for the lavender-filled breezes. Will had been working long hours ever since we’d found out about the baby, and I was lonely and afraid.

  I’d left Will a note that said, “You know where to find me” and made the three-hour trip alone.

  No person in their right mind would have gotten in the water before Easter. But, my body—overstretched and overheated—needed each wave like it needed oxygen. I was still sprawled out at the water’s edge when I heard Will’s truck door slam at the cabin. I smiled to myself. He really did know where to find me.

  Pots clanged, cabinets opened and closed, and then Will appeared beside me on the beach with two glasses of tea. “I stopped for groceries and took next week off.”

  He removed his shoes and socks and rolled up his pants legs. Settling into the sand beside me, he added, “Even brought a bottle of wine in case you decide to take the doctor’s advice to have a glass.”

  “My hero,” I’d mumbled from under my beach hat.

  April 1, 1985

  Looks like I won’t be making it three more weeks after all. My water broke early this morning (no contractions though), so Will is packing up to drive us home. The next time I write I will be a mother—a strange and somewhat surreal thought. I guess it’s too late to say I’m not ready for this, isn’t it?

  We’d lived the life every young couple dreamed of. After Meaghan was born, I decided to stay home. In between diaperings and feedings, I freelanced for a few local newspapers. Will worked at the bank and brought me flowers every payday.

  Our second child arrived in February when Meaghan was four. Will and I had timed it so Meaghan would have us all to herself until she started kindergarten. Once she was in school, we’d be able to focus on another child without taking away from her.
Now that the time for her to go to school was drawing near, I wished I had waited a little longer. Meg was ready for kindergarten, without doubt. She had the vocabulary of a college freshman and could build an argument to rival any Greek scholar. In my eyes, Meg was still a baby herself in so many ways. I saw it in her dark eyes when the other kids on the playground didn’t want to play with her. And, I saw it when Molly came home from the hospital.

  “I can’t nurse anymore, right Mommy?” Meg crawled up in my lap and snuggled in beside her baby sister who was slurping away at my breast and smacking her lips in delight.

  “That’s right, sweetie. It’s Molly’s turn to nurse now. You’re able to eat vegetables now,” I said. Then added, “And cookies!”

  “I got too big, didn’t I?” Her words were more a statement than a question. Then Meaghan had laid her head on my chest and stroked her sister’s pudgy hand while Molly blew milk bubbles.

  July 12, 1990

  When I lose it, I’ll plead temporary insanity, and any judge who has children will let me off. Coming to the cabin with a five-year old and a seven-month old is pressing the boundaries of what any sane person can manage. Coming a week after getting a new puppy is downright demented. Shannon is so cute though—I can’t keep my hands off of her. The baby isn’t bad either (ha!) . . .

  August 25, 1992

  We only got one day on the beach before the rain hit. They say Andrew is headed this way. Shannon is running in circles and barking her head off, so I believe it. Will boarded up the windows and put sandbags around the cabin (don’t ask me what good he thinks that will do). The kids are whining like crazy, but what can you do? Mother Nature made other plans, and apparently she didn’t consult my children . . .

  I’d sat at the kitchen table and picked at the plastic place mat. Will had paced and scribbled on the back of an envelope, Shannon a few steps behind him.

  “How does this sound,” he said. “‘Patrick David Mason, fifty-three, died in his home on October 23, 1995. He is survived by his beloved wife, Ramona, and his son Randall, fourteen. In lieu of flowers, please send donations to the Disabled American Vets.’”

  “Sounds perfect.” I held my tongue, not telling him to spell out the word Veterans. I wanted Will to be done with this. To think about anything other than his brother’s death for a while. He had sprung into action four days earlier when the news came that his brother died and hadn’t slowed down since.

  “I think beloved wife is too much.”

  Shannon barked in agreement.

  I nodded. Ramona was a drunk, more concerned with stirring up drama than parenting her son. She opted out of most family gatherings, which disappointed no one. The day she’d married Patrick, Ramona had told her new mother-in-law that she’d raised a “Mama’s Boy. ” “I’ll spend the rest of my life undoing what you did.”

  No, “beloved” wasn’t a word that came to mind when I thought about Ramona. “Might be a stretch,” I agreed and took a swig of my coffee.

  July 14, 1998

  Meaghan brought her friend Jessica with her this trip, and the poor girl can’t take her eyes off Randy. You’d think that skinny boy was George Clooney the way she looks at him. Of course Randy is so interested in fishing with Will he hasn’t even noticed her (Thank Goodness!). By next summer, I’ll have to figure out how to have teenaged boys and girls sleeping in the same house without “problems.”

  Tonight, Will crept up behind me while I was washing dishes, put his arms around my waist and kissed me on my neck. I turned my face into his and stood still, afraid that the slightest move on my part would end the moment. Alas, the kids walked in and yelled, “Gross! Get a room!” I bit my tongue not to tell them that this was our room! They would die if they knew half of what had gone on in this cabin . . .

  Will had enjoyed his work and gave it all he had. He went into the office before I rolled out of bed in the mornings and got home most nights well after the girls were asleep. I’d wait up for him whenever I could, desperate for a few minutes of adult conversation and a foot rub. But, on the weekends, he’d been all “family man. ” Saturdays I’d sleep in and almost always woke up to the smell of breakfast cooking and the sound of the girls giggling at something silly their father was doing.

  Over time, the long hours and cancelled vacations had started to wear him down. I don’t think anyone else had seen it but me, though. Once the girls had started to have lives that only included their parents’ funding rather than energy, Saturday mornings provided sacred sleep for Will. Sure, I worried, but he’d assured me that everything was fine.

  “The old gray mare, ya know . . .”

  “A mare is a female horse, William.”

  “You know what I mean. I’m just getting old. You’re going to have to put me out to pasture.”

  “With all the other mares, huh?”

  August 30, 2004

  We are settled in for the long weekend—just Will and I. Meg is settled into her dorm, and Molly would rather spontaneously combust than hang out with us anymore. I’m finally feeling like I have my husband back to myself after all these years.

  I gathered wood hoping for a fire, but it’s way too warm. Will still isn’t feeling good, so I put him to bed. I’ve had lavender drying for ages, so I guess I’ll bake tomorrow if he’s still not up to snuff . . .

  Shortly before Molly graduated high school, Will had been diagnosed. A few weeks later, we found out that the cancer had already metastasized. Will decided not to undergo treatment. He’d rather spend his days reading with Shannon lying at his feet.

  Seeing Will so peaceful, it was hard for me to be upset.

  “You can cry if you need to, love.” Will stroked my hair. I was cuddled under his arm on the couch . . . Will with his book, me with mine.

  “Why would I need to cry?” I asked.

  I put down my book and looked up at him. “I’ve lived the past thirty years with my best friend by my side. That’s more than most people can say.”

  “When it’s time . . . when you feel like it. It’s okay to cry.”

  “I will. If I feel like it.” I looked back down at my book. I meant it, too. My life was full of joy and love. I knew I was blessed.

  And, if I had let myself think about waking up a single day without him next to me, my world might have fallen apart.

  March 29, 2005

  Will wanted to see if the crocuses were out, so we drove in this morning. I’ve got him set up by the front window looking out over the water. He says he’s reading, but I haven’t seen him turn a page in days. Mostly he looks out at the water. We tried to go for a walk on the beach, but he’s just too weak. I took a bucket down and brought some sand back for him to stick his feet in while he “reads”. . .

  The sun was going down, and it was hard to read the tear-splatted pages. I closed the journal and looked around the empty cabin, taking a final deep breath of lavender and must. “Well, there you go, William. I guess I finally felt like crying,” I said aloud.

  The wicker chair barely fit in the back of my car and gave a protesting moan as I closed the hatch. I pulled back down the curving drive, stopping before I hit asphalt.

  I pushed a “For Sale” sign into the dry, red dirt under the mailbox that read “Our neck of the woods” and drove away.

  Chasing Sunset

  Darcy Crowder

  Going. Going. Gone.

  I pulled my knees up and rested my chin on the warm denim fabric of my jeans as the last, glowing curve of the sun dipped below the worn edges of the Appalachian foothills.

  “Good night, Momma.”

  Ignoring the persistent buzz of mosquitoes, I sat quiet, surrounded by the scent of night jasmine and honeysuckle, as the colors in the sky faded from brilliant pink and orange to the soft blue gray of night. If I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could still rememb
er the warmth of Momma’s side pressed against mine as we’d sat on this very same rock perched over the deep waters of the Tennessee, sharing sunsets and secrets.

  Momma once told me that if you kissed your true love at the exact moment the sun dipped below the horizon that you would have a lifetime of love and happiness. It was exactly the sort of promise that immediately captured my childhood imagination, and truth be told, lingers still.

  But that night, years ago, she must have seen a look of skepticism on my face, because she nudged her shoulder against mine and laughed. “It’s true, Rosie, cross my heart. I kissed your daddy on this very same river the night he asked me to marry him—at sunset—and we’ve been happy in love ever since.”

  I’d slipped my hand into the warmth of hers as we watched the sun go down.

  After that it was like a special secret we shared. Sometimes she’d wink at me and say, “Look Rosie, another perfect sunset. Let’s go watch.” We’d climb out to my favorite perch over the river and watch in silence as the Good Lord put on a show just for the two of us.

  Of all the places in the world I may one day travel to, I don’t imagine I’ll ever feel closer to God or Momma, than sitting on this rock suspended over the lazy, deep waters of the Tennessee.

  For Momma, life was a garden, and my sisters and I were her most cherished blossoms. Like the master gardener she was, she knew how to love us in that special way that spoke to who we were.

  She took long walks with my sister Aster, a bundle of energy who never seemed to be able to just sit a spell and talk, but was always striving to move forward in everything she did.

  With Lily, Momma would cozy up among all the colors and textures in Lily’s room and chat, admiring as Lily dabbed and stroked another vision of beauty onto her canvas.

  But with me, with me it was always sunset. Momma used to tell me she thought the reason I felt at home sitting on my rocky ledge suspended above the river was because I had my feet on solid ground, but my head in the clouds. Not to worry, though, because one day I’d figure it all out, and that everyone should remember to reach for the sky.