by Lisa Smartt
And that’s when we stepped into a scene from a movie. You know that big office with black leather furniture and big bookcases lining the walls? The one with the bar on one side and a couch or two on the other? Yeah. That’s when you know the office belongs to the boss’ son-in-law. Except Matthew wasn’t the boss’ son-in-law. Or I didn’t think so anyway.
The rest of my party said nice things, pleasant things like, “Nice office.” Or “Great view.” But I felt no need for pretense. “Good Golly, Matthew, what has happened here? This doesn’t seem like a starter office to me. Tell me you’re not involved with a South American drug cartel.”
He put both hands up in the air and smiled. “Busted. You always were the insightful one, Carlie. I figured Bob Garrett got wind of my dirty dealings and sent you guys to snuff me out.”
Doug laughed. “Hey, we’re happy for you. Really.”
“I know. And you’re right. This isn’t exactly a starter office. Truth is, Julie’s dad felt like he owed me. He doesn’t. But he feels like he does. A long time ago, right after the accident, Julie asked her dad to send his personal lawyer to represent me. He agreed because hey, it was his little girl asking, right? But evidently, my dad talked him out of it. Said it would ruin his reputation in business and that he should let justice take its course. Julie was livid. Her dad says I wouldn’t have done half the time I did, if he had just followed through with her request.”
Dusty sat on the couch. “And what do you think?”
“I think it’s in the past. And besides, I’ve said before I should have served life. So, no. No one owes me anything. And I’m sure, ultimately, the hope of his company being featured on television made the decision easy for him.” He walked toward the bar area. “How ‘bout a drink?”
Doug hesitated.
“Hey, it’s just ginger ale. I mean, it’s not even lunchtime.” We nodded and he poured four drinks in those really heavy glasses that make you think you should be at a fancy party wearing a long sequin gown and smoking a cigarette that’s on a really long holder. Okay. Maybe it’s just me that thinks that. And yes, I know. Smoking is bad for you. Long holder or not. Don’t smoke. End of disclaimer.
He handed us the drinks and then leaned up against the desk. “So, what brings the Tennessee contingency to California?”
I leapt from my chair. “We brought you a gift. I would have put it in one of those fancy baskets and wrapped it in cellophane, but that’s not really my style. So I brought it in a Dollar General Store bag. I know. It’s already pulling at your heartstrings, isn’t it?”
“It is.” He smiled and reached for the bag. “Thank you, I think.” He peeked inside. “Great! I’ve been needing these! Aunt Charlotte’s pickles. Mabel’s banana bread. This is wonderful.”
“Oh, there’s more. Keep looking.”
He paused and stood perfectly still. “Wow. Thank you. I mean, I don’t know what to say, Carlie.” He pulled out a framed picture of Chester and Ida’s house. “I love it. Thank you.”
“Keep going.”
He smiled and bit his lip. “A journal? No. It’s a book of pictures. The barber shop. Brother Dan. Aunt Charlotte.” He looked up. “Let me guess. This is some kind of campaign. Carlie, it has your name written all over it.”
“Guilty. But there’s one more thing. At the bottom of the bag.”
He sat back on the desk and pulled out a rectangle covered in tissue paper. As he pulled off the tissue paper, he didn’t utter one word. None of us did. He just stared at it. Finally, he looked up and shook his head. “The sad thing? She doesn’t even know how beautiful she is.” He turned to face the window. He placed his right hand on the glass. “She actually thought Julie was more, I don’t know, more something. But look at this picture, huh? Take a good look at it. How could any woman who looks like that, who serves people the way she does, how could she ever have doubts…about anything.” He set the picture on his desk.
Dusty spoke softly, “How can we help?”
For the first time, I heard sadness in his voice. “Help with what, Dusty? Look around. This is the good life, right? Or it’s supposed to be. The California ex-con dream. Oh, and guess what? I even have a Facebook fan page now.” He turned away and whispered, “Set up by somebody I don’t even know. Somebody who doesn’t know me.”
Doug stood. “Look, we know you’re busy. We won’t take any more of your time. But you’re right about our visit. We’re here to say, ‘Come home.’ I know it might make your legal things complicated. It could mean going through a trial. But we miss you. All of us do. Some of us more than others.”
“How is she?”
I set my glass down. “Hurting.”
“It’ll get better. With some time. Isn’t that what people always say? Time heals all wounds.”
“They also say, ‘A watched pot never boils.’ But they’re wrong. If you turn the burner on high, a pot of water will boil, whether someone’s watching or not. So really, sometimes those sayings are just plain wrong.”
He smiled. “You’ll see. Sarah will get back on her feet. She just needs a chance to move on. You guys have dinner plans tonight?”
“We don’t.”
“Julie’s dad’s hosting a big company dinner party at a restaurant that looks out over the water. It’ll be fun. Come as my guests. I promise the food will be good.”
Dusty jumped to his feet. “You know the West Tennessee folks are all about free food, brother.”
“Well, it won’t be as good as the church potluck. But we do the best we can.”
He wrote down the address and we made plans to meet at 8:00 for dinner. Country people eat around 6:00 but we learned a long time ago that city folks sometimes eat as late as 9:00 or even 10:00. They’d get horrible indigestion except that they stay up late too. To quote that song from Aladdin, “It’s a whole new world.”
As we walked out of Matthew’s office, I turned back briefly. The picture was still there on the front of his desk. Sarah sitting in the rocker on our front porch. Matthew standing beside the chair, looking at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Because to him, she was. And is.
Chapter 53, CARLIE: Country Mice and the California Coast
We warned Matthew that we didn’t have dressy clothes. He told us not to worry. But that’s what most men would say. If I said to the average man, “The only thing I have to wear to your cousin’s wedding is this ratty ol’ pair of denim shorts, a brown t-shirt, and a pair of yellow flip flops,” do you know what that man will say? Nine times out of ten he’ll say, “Oh, that’ll be fine.” Except, of course, he’d be wrong. And so was Matthew.
The restaurant looked like a huge southern plantation, which I thought was odd, considering we were in California. But Matthew was right. It was right on the water. Beautiful. Classy. Pricey. Matthew greeted us at the door with a smile. I grabbed him by the arm. “Look at everybody in here. They’re dressed to the nines.”
He looked us up and down and smiled in that way where he shows every one of his perfect teeth. “And you guys are dressed to the…well, at least to the sevens. So really, don’t worry about it.”
Clara and I both had on dress pants and those sweaters you get at Wal-mart or Cato, you know, where the white shirt collar and cuffs are sewn into the sweater to make it look like you have a shirt on under the sweater. But really, you don’t. It’s all just a sweater/white shirt con job. Doug and Dusty had on khaki pants and button-up shirts. Julie’s dad wore a suit that I felt confident cost more than our car. He approached us with a big smile, like he was trying to sell us something. “Welcome! You must be the Tennessee friends. I’m Bill McLaughlin. Welcome to our little soiree.”
I put out my hand. “Oh, we like to soiree every chance we get. Yes, sir!”
Julie came running through the crowd. She had on a tight red dress that had every part of her body shoved upward in such a way it spilled over the top. She threw her arms around my neck. “Carlie! It’s great to see you! All of you! Dadd
y, these aren’t just Matthew’s friends. They’re my friends too. And Carlie’s famous. A writer.”
“She is, is she? Well, forgive my being behind the times, Carlie. I come from the Hemingway era. And sadly, when it comes to literature, I’ve let myself go.”
“Oh, no problem.”
“Daddy’s all about business. And he’s good at it too. He says Matthew has the makings of a great businessman. Tough and tender.”
And so the evening went. Julie flirted with Matthew. Matthew acted uninterested. Julie’s daddy explained in graphic detail how to make money investing in high-end clothing companies. We feigned interest with utmost friendliness. We ate shrimp and steak. We all agreed it was the best mango salsa we’d ever tasted (because none of us had ever tasted mango salsa). Julie tried to explain to her daddy about hash brown casserole. It just kept going on and on and on. Finally, Doug put an end to it. Thank you, Doug. God bless the day you were born.
“Dusty and Clara have an early morning flight, so we best be going.” He reached to give Matthew a hug. “It was good to see you, man. Really. Glad to see you’re doing well.”
Matthew placed his drink on the table. “Wait. I’ll walk with you to your car.”
As we walked, none of us said much. I guess it had all been said. Before we got in the car, Dusty spoke for all of us. Perfectly. He put his arm around Matthew and pointed back to the restaurant. “This life? If it’s the one you were meant to live, Matthew, you know we’re supportive, right? And we always will be.”
Matthew bowed his head. “I know. Thank you.”
Chapter 54, SARAH: Sweet Southern Surveillance
Sharon, Tennessee, is now on the map. It’s always been on the map. I guess most people just didn’t know it was there. When I drove by Chester and Ida’s just now, there were a couple of young 20-something girls taking pictures of the house from the front sidewalk. Wouldn’t that have just tickled Chester and Ida to no end? If only the girls could have gone inside and seen their collection of Coke crates and glassware. Maybe even the 50 states quilt. But of course, those girls hadn’t the slightest interest in collectibles or old people or even small towns. No. It was all about Matthew Prescott.
The fire chief called this afternoon. He hemmed and hawed a bit until I finally said, “Chief Richardson, is there something I can do for you?”
“Well, yes, Sarah, there is. Matthew Prescott made it clear that he had every intention of donating that quilt to our raffle. Is there any way you can acquire it?”
“I’m sure Judy will let me in the place this afternoon. Yes, I’ll take care of it.”
That’s one of the good things about small towns. We don’t operate on just the letter of the law. It’s the spirit of the law. Everyone knew Matthew Prescott was the rightful owner of the house and all its possessions. And everyone knew he meant to donate that quilt too. So, when I went by the realty office to ask Judy if she could let me in to get it, she didn’t hesitate. She shuffled some papers and handed me the key. “Sarah, I can’t go right now. I’ve gotta show a house in Martin. Don’t forget to lock when you leave.” She smiled, as she grabbed the phone. “And try to keep your hands off the glassware.”
I wasn’t embarrassed for people to see me going in the house. I had business to attend to. Legitimate business that involved fire safety and fire trucks and overall fire protection for our lovely area. I could see Cora Belle and Bozo looking through her kitchen window. I waved as if to say, “Go ahead, Cora Belle. Call Mabel or Charlotte or whoever you need to talk to. Yes, I’m walking into Matthew Prescott’s house. Alone. With a key.”
The house smelled like that new clean-smelling Lysol. Not the kind that reminds you of when you were sick as a kid. No. The new kind that smells like flowers and clean laundry. Everything looked exactly the way it looked when we gathered here after Chester and Ida died. The dining room chairs were all neatly tucked under the table. I walked into the living room and sat in Chester’s green recliner. I rubbed my hands on the worn arm rests and remembered that day he told Matthew the whole town was wondering where he was, what he was up to. But not to worry. He and Ida had set ‘em straight. Sure enough. When it came to Matthew Prescott, Chester and Ida Miller set all of us straight. Or died trying.
I walked down the hallway and paused outside his room. The bed was made perfectly. Blankets folded neatly on an old cedar chest. The stack of books was gone from the end table. While I didn’t feel one bit bad going in the house to get the quilt, I did wonder if it would be crossing a line to walk into Matthew’s room. But I did it anyway. I looked in the closet. Empty. And then I sat on the edge of the bed. If walking into the room violated his privacy, what I did next was probably an out-and-out crime. I opened the drawer of the end table. The only thing in there was Mrs. Ida’s old stationery pad with the faded blue and yellow flowers on top. No ink pens or pencils. Nothing.
As I was closing the drawer, I noticed pieces of stationery tucked loosely under the pad. I knew not to look, and not because it could be considered criminal activity. No. I knew not to look because my mama raised me better than that. Way better.
I left the room quickly and headed to the back room to retrieve the quilt. As I was walking toward the front door, lavender quilt folded neatly in a big garbage bag, I paused. I set the bag next to an old wooden coat rack and walked back into Matthew’s bedroom.
I lowered myself quietly onto the edge of the bed, as though Cora Belle could hear the old iron bed creaking from across the street. I slowly pulled open the drawer and reached for the loose papers and spread them out on the quilt. I shouldn’t have. But I read each faded sheet of paper. Every word.
Dear Sarah,
I wish I could write poetry. But I’m not a poet. Your beauty is beyond what I can explain with words. I don’t want to leave you. The moment
Dear Sarah,
I’m not giving up on us. I can’t imagine waking up every day, knowing I won’t see you. I will find a way for us to be together. Please trust me. The memory of your lips on
Dear Sarah,
I need you. I want you to need me too. I want you to be able to count on me. I want to be that kind of man. It may take some time, but I want to earn your trust again. Is it possible that
Dear Sarah,
Prison bars don’t take away a man’s freedom. A man’s freedom is lost when he no longer possesses moral courage. What I did today showed a lack of moral courage. You deserve better. So please
Dear Sarah,
Sometimes I have bad dreams about the night Mary died. Or I remember things that happened to me in prison. But last night I had the most wonderful dream. You and I were walking down by the creek. I kissed you and you laid your head on my chest. And all I could think about was taking care of you. You make me want to be a better man and that
Dear Sarah,
I love you. Desperately. And that’s why I’m leaving tonight. Brother Dan is right. Sometimes real love requires sacrifice. I hope you can
My heart was racing. I slowly moved my hand over the pieces of paper. I closed my eyes and remembered the first night he kissed me. The night he said he didn’t know how to do this. This thing between the two of us. But he did know. Better than anyone else had ever known. And I was convinced he still knew.
I gathered the papers and stacked them neatly under the stationery pad and closed the drawer. Without taking my shoes off, I lay back on the bed. The pillow was extra-soft. An old feather pillow. I slowly placed my hand on the space next to me, wishing he were there. The ceiling was stained with brown water spots and the wallpaper in the corners was peeling. This tiny room with the old iron bed. So different from his childhood home. But it represented a place of hope. Belonging. New beginnings. A place to heal.
My tears fell like tiny raindrops on the patchwork quilt. Tears of sadness for every nightmare he ever endured. Tears for every time he lay in this spot in the early morning hours. Unable to find sleep. Alone. Tears for the horrible memories of Mary’s death. For the fo
urteen years he lay in a prison cell. But mostly? Tears for myself. Matthew Prescott was the only man I’d ever loved. And he was gone.
Chapter 55, CARLIE: Be It Ever So Humble, There’s No Place Like Home
Dusty and Clara flew back to Tennessee day before yesterday. As soon as they got home, they called to report that all five kids were happy and healthy and Uncle Bart and Aunt Charlotte were ready for a nap. Whew! What a relief! I mean, I’m sure all the kids would now be going around saying things like, “He don’t know no better.” Or “Dad gum, kick a fella in the teeth!” Or my personal favorite? “Shoot a monkey in the head and call me crazy!” I’d never want to shoot a monkey in the head. But calling Aunt Charlotte crazy? Not that far-fetched.
But despite Aunt Charlotte’s continual abuse of the English language, one thing is clear. She knows how to love. And love deeply.
We had a great evening with all three Robertsons last night. Ashley cooked roast and carrots. Dave made homemade rolls. Collin drew a picture of a spaceship with markers and made me promise to give it to James. We sat on their porch and watched the waves roll in. Their home was always peaceful. Never pompous. When we asked Dave if he’d become best friends with Tom Hanks yet, he grinned and said matter-of-factly, “Yes. Yes, I have. He’s like an uncle to me now. We’ll be spending all holidays together from now on. I mean, sure. I’m going to miss spending Christmas with you guys. But hey, it’s Tom Hanks, people. That man is gonna so love our homemade ginger snaps, Honey.”
Ashley laughed. “And Aunt Charlotte’s magic pickles. Don’t forget the pickles.”
“Yes, when Tom and Rita come over, there must be pickles. They will demand pickles!”
We spent the whole evening laughing together and silently thanking God. We all had known the blessings of authentic friendship. And real love. My evening prayer was simple: “God, give Matthew courage. Courage to just take a chance.”
Just as I was picking up the book on the hotel nightstand, my cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Carlie?”
“Yes. Hey, Sarah. Good to hear from you.”
