Jem half stood, but she was already gone. He sat slowly, staring into his plate. There was a limit to politeness. He completely understood her frustration, especially as she spent her days researching the men who fought and died for their families, their freedom and their communities. He swallowed hard. It was a dishonor to run when your country was in danger, and Regan couldn’t see that. Her vision was so narrow, her heart so small, that she couldn’t imagine how a man would willingly walk into live fire, knowing he might not make it back to his loved ones. There were times a man was called to make sacrifices. A soldier agreed to be separated from his wife and children, from his parents and friends, so that others might have freedom.
Lucy had chosen her family over him, the boy she loved. Jem had thought that it had been easy, that she was flighty and shallow. But like a man heading to war, she had chosen to sacrifice herself for her home and her family. Jem didn’t think they deserved it, but it wasn’t his opinion that mattered. For years, his vision had been so narrow, just like Regan’s, that he couldn’t imagine how Lucy could have walked away from him. It was easier for him to believe that she was making the easy choice.
Jem let the conversation carry on without him. He’d wanted to like Regan, to have a lighthearted diversion. She was pretty and flirtatious. But he had loved one girl, and one only, for a long time. No amount of denial, bitterness, or blue martinis could change that fact.
“We certainly do not forget you, so soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves.”
—ANNE ELLIOT
Chapter Fourteen
“You said when you were done, you’d take a walk outside.” Alda poked her head inside the doorway. Today she had green streaks in her blond hair and tiny guitar earrings. “Come on. No more hiding in this office.”
“But I’m not finished. I have this stack of letters to organize—” Lucy broke off at the look on Alda’s face. “I guess I could use a little air.”
“Let’s walk the trail. It’ll only take a little while. You’ll be perky and fresh for the presentation.”
“More like tired and sweaty,” Lucy grumbled, but she tucked the fragile papers back into the archive box.
“I’m not fixin’ to walk the whole thousand acres and the seven sites on the battlefield, girl. Just the first loop.” Alda held Lucy’s office door open and waited, making it clear that she wasn’t hearing any more excuses.
Minutes later they were walking down the narrow path toward Bethany Cemetery, the light breeze giving a bit of relief to the heat. Lucy inhaled deeply, noting the smell of growing things and the fertile soil. It truly felt good to get out of her office. If only Jem weren’t due to arrive in an hour, she might actually be enjoying herself. She focused on slowing her heart rate and clearing her mind.
Alda was quiet, gaze focused on the trees ahead, walking slowly. Lucy matched her pace, hoping she didn’t sweat too much. Her summer dress was simple but dressy, the pale-blue cotton sheath adorned with one vintage pin of her mama’s. The white, enameled petals were edged with gold and silver balls gathered in the center. Paulette called it an ugly monstrosity and so far out of style it would never come back. She’d told Lucy that a modern woman should wear something that makes a fashion statement.
Lucy had reminded her that a vintage pin definitely made a statement. Paulette huffed that only grandmas wore magnolias, that it was cliché and passé and backward. Lucy didn’t care. She wore it because she needed to feel close to her mama today, and if it made her look like an old lady, then so be it.
Lucy glanced at Alda and had to smile. Alda certainly never cared what anybody thought of her style.
They walked in silence for a while and Lucy felt her shoulder muscles relax. She tried to imagine, just for a little while, that there was no past and no future, just this quiet moment. They reached the cemetery and stood, looking at the ninety six Confederate gravestones. An old elm stood guard over the white markers, and the flag on the pole moved gently in the soft breeze.
“Do you know why I moved home to Tupelo?” Alda asked.
“You came home to watch over your grandma, I think.” Lucy remembered Alda’s saying that she’d loved Memphis. The lights and the energy of the city made her feel as if she’d found her place at last.
“That’s just what I told everybody.” Alda stared out at the graves, her eyes filled with sadness.
Lucy said nothing, just watched Alda’s face and waited for her to continue.
“I was supposed to get married. We had a spring wedding all planned out. Catering, flowers, dress, the whole shebang.” She paused. “He decided he wasn’t ready. He wanted to see the world, wanted to get a record contract, work the Memphis clubs.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, and hated how hollow the words sounded.
“So was I.” Alda touched her earrings, gaze faraway. “I knew it was just an excuse because he could have done all of those things with me. I still miss him. I thought I would hate his guts, but I loved him for years after he dumped me.” She turned, a half smile on her face. “Isn’t it weird that you can’t just stop loving someone when they don’t deserve it anymore? He was such a jerk, and it’s like my heart didn’t get the news flash.”
Lucy nodded. She knew what it was like to have your heart act independently of your head.
Alda turned back to the gravesite, gaze fixed on the leaves moving at the top of the trees. “He had the most amazing voice.” Her tone was so soft that Lucy had to listen closely. “I never knew that music could make you feel so much until I heard Harlon sing.”
Lucy thought of Jem, and the way he could read a poem in a way that gave it a whole new meaning. She wondered if she had understood poetry at all before she met him.
“I heard he got a record deal a few months ago. He might be famous soon. I might get to hear him on the radio all the time.” Alda rolled her eyes. “Won’t that be wonderful?”
She laughed, but Lucy felt a twinge of concern for Alda. Having Jem around Crawford House all the time was a whole new kind of pain. She hadn’t known it could be so hard just to know he was somewhere in the house, even if she couldn’t see or hear him. He was close, and everything in her yearned to be near him.
Alda shrugged. “I don’t mean to whine. It’s just hard to stand here and look at these graves without thinking of all the sadness in the world, to know they were loved and loved others. All gone in a day.”
Lucy could have sworn that the grief of a hundred families lingered over this place. The spot was green and peaceful, but the ninety-six markers were a stark reminder of the finality of death. The mass grave of thirty more anonymous dead at the far end was even more powerful. The same sacrifice, but not even a stone to remind the world of their names. Lucy wasn’t sure anyone ever really read through the whole roll that was framed at the center. She’d seen the tourists wander through with their fanny packs and giant styrofoam cups of fountain drinks, enjoying the momentary glimpse into the past, not pausing to read the names of men who had lived and breathed and loved.
“I don’t think it was all just erased because they died.”
“You mean, because they went to heaven or something?” Alda shrugged. “I know you believe that there’s a God and if we’re really good, we’re going to a happy place after this is all over, but I just don’t. I think this is all we get.”
Lucy grimaced at the idea that Christians only behaved so they could go to a happy place. “I do believe in heaven, but I was thinking more about their sacrifice, and what comes after. Jesus said there was no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” She looked at the tombstones, blackened from a hundred years in the elements, some leaning to one side. “Some were forced into service, but a lot of men volunteered. They were trying to protect their families and fighting for what they thought was right.”
“It’s weir
d to hear you talk like that when they were fighting to keep slavery legal,” Alda said.
“Of course I think they were wrong, but I admire the fact they were willing to die for something. So many people don’t really care about anything. They just can’t be bothered. They skim along on the surface of life, just giving the bare minimum. They’re not paying attention.” Lucy thought of how much time some people spent watching TV, as if they were just passing time until they reached the end of their lives. They were afraid to be bored, but didn’t have anything good to fill the time except chatter and noise.
“So, you think it matters how much they cared?” Alda didn’t sound convinced.
“Sort of. Thoreau said most men lead lives of quiet desperation. I know he probably meant that people didn’t get to choose their path and never got a chance to do what they wanted, but I think so many people are afraid to be passionate about anything. Maybe they want to paint, but they’re afraid to fail and make something ugly. Instead they ignore that desire and just pass the time, doing nothing.” Lucy thought of Dr. Stroud and his reenactments. She thought of Theresa and her love of Jane Austen—of the sisters united in their love of stories from two hundred years ago. “And those people who are passionate, if you ask them, there’s usually someone who inspired them. It comes from somewhere. And it turns into a long, linking chain of people.”
Alda sighed. “A chain of people who refuse to lead a life of quiet desperation, like Harlon. I could have cared less about country music before I met him. Now I love it. I love singing it, thinking of stories that could turn into poems that could be songs. Love and hate it, really, because it reminds me of him.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, I guess, that these men were so passionate their memory lived on long after they were gone. Just because they died didn’t mean their families stopped loving them. Love stays with us, whether we want it to or not.”
“So, you think maybe they were all amazing men who inspired everyone around them to be better people when they died? I s’pose that could be, if we ignored the whole slavery part.”
Lucy glanced up at the old elm tree, sorting out her thoughts and searching for words that fit the certainty inside. “I don’t know what they were passionate about, or how they spent their time. I’m sure they were extraordinary in their own way, but they were also just regular men. They probably held grudges, made enemies, had their petty moments. Heck, they probably wouldn’t have had a conversation with me if we lived in the same era.”
Alda snorted. “True.”
“But just like someone with a passion, their sacrifice sparked something in other people, maybe a lot of people. And when they were gone, that spark lived on. Those people were left to use that love somewhere.” The breeze ruffled Lucy’s hair, and for a moment she imagined the touch of a lover, the kiss of a son, the gentle pat of a father.
Lucy thought of her mama’s care of her, of her singing and her laugh. She had such joy and life in her that when she was gone, the world seemed empty and cold. She hadn’t died for a cause, but her love lived on. Lucy had done her best to look after her sisters, to make sure Daddy was happy, to keep Crawford House in the family.
Jem’s face flashed through her mind. She spoke to herself without thinking it through. “I don’t think the person needs to die for us to carry that love around. It still makes us who we are. We just need to apply it somewhere. If we let it stay inside, it will turn into something bitter and cold.”
Alda put a hand to her mouth, face creasing in pain. Tears squeezed out from under her lids and slid down her cheeks. Lucy reached out and hugged her close.
After a few minutes Lucy said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, you’re right,” Alda gasped. Her voice was rough and her breath hitched with every word. “I’ve been trying so hard to get rid of what I felt for Harlon. And I shouldn’t.”
Lucy rubbed Alda’s back, a feeling of panic tightening her chest. She was the last person to give love advice. She hadn’t done anything but pine for Jem since he’d gone, and done nothing but pine for him since he’d returned. She hadn’t taken her love for him and put it anywhere at all.
Alda looked up, eyes red. “I need to take that love and spread it around. What a waste to just keep it tucked inside.”
She leaned into her, squeezing Alda tight. The girl was brave and made Lucy want to do something other than roll into a ball and cry. “You inspire me.”
“I can’t imagine how.” Alda wiped her eyes. “All I did was run home to lick my wounds. I guess I can’t sit around and mope forever.”
“Moping isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, that’s for sure,” Lucy said.
Alda paused. “I haven’t wanted to ask.”
“About what?”
She let out a breath and wiped her eyes. “You’ve been different lately. Real sad, just like I was when my Harlon dumped me.”
“I wasn’t dumped.” Lucy tried to smile. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”
“Really?” She looked skeptical.
“Really. I have absolutely zero prospects in my romantic life, so it would be impossible to be dumped.” Lucy was fudging the truth a bit, but there wasn’t any way to explain that she was wallowing in a decade’s-old broken heart. It would take a few hours that they didn’t have. “We’d better get back. I’ve got to freshen up so I look nice for all the reenactors coming to watch my presentation on battlefield amputations.”
They turned back to the path. “I always wonder about those reenactor guys. Do they have wives? Girlfriends? Do they have any life besides playin’ dress-up?”
“I’m pretty sure most of them have healthy social lives.”
“With other dudes who like to sleep in ditches and pretend to die an ugly death in battle,” Alda said, snickering.
“Dr. Stroud is married to a very nice woman. I met her a few weeks ago at a party. Of course, she’s sort of obsessed with Jane Austen, so maybe that’s why they get along.”
“I guess everybody’s gotta have a hobby,” Alda said. She pointed toward the interpretive-center parking lot. “Look over there. Do we have people arriving already?”
Lucy’s stomach dropped and she searched the line of cars for Jem’s silver four-door. There it was, at the far end, under a shady tree. Her mouth went dry and her step faltered.
Alda glanced up at her, concerned. “Are you nervous? You don’t look good.”
“Thanks—just what every girl wants to hear before she makes a public speech.”
“You know what I mean.” Alda touched Lucy’s arm. “Did you eat lunch? Do you need to sit down? It’s pretty hot out here.”
Lucy shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”
They were close to the doors now and Alda reached for the handle. “I’ll go bring out the kits and the photos.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Through the glass, she saw Jem. He had his back to her, talking to a short man in a bow tie, but she recognized him. His blond hair was always a bit ruffled, his shoulders a little hunched as if he’d grown up fast and felt too tall for the room. He turned at the sound of the opening door and met her gaze. A smile spread over his face.
He was wearing rough gray pants, worn leather boots, a white shirt and suspenders. He wasn’t quite in Civil War attire, but he wasn’t wearing modern clothes, either. She blinked, and for a moment she saw him as a man from long ago. His gaze traveled down to the pin on her dress and his eyes went soft. He said something to the short man in the bow tie and walked toward her.
“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
She heard same sort of greeting dozens of times a week, but his words made her cheeks go hot. “It’s only been three days.”
“But it was a long three days.” The corner of his mouth went up.
Lucy swallowed hard. He was flirting with her.
Just as in the kitchen as they cooked, he was sending a little message of interest, but he had also flirted with Regan, letting her lay a hand on his thigh or lean into him at the table. Lucy looked past him and searched for something to say. “Did you come here with Dr. Stroud?”
“No, he’s at the clinic. As soon as the nurse from the County Health arrives, he’ll run over.”
She frowned. “So, this is your day off?”
“Sure is. I usually don’t wear suspenders to work.” He hooked his thumbs through them and rocked back on his heels. Lucy couldn’t help smiling at the sight. He looked happy, relaxed.
“Well, I hope we make it worth your while and you don’t regret giving up your free day.”
“Never.” There was that shy smile again. He paused, as if choosing his words. “Lucy, I was wondering if you would want to—”
“There you are.” A voice cut into his sentence and they both turned to see Marcus a few feet away. He was in a suit with a boldly patterned tie that matched the silk handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He looked like the gentleman he’d never been. Lucy felt herself go cold.
She nodded in his direction, but didn’t move to greet him. She had lain awake that night, going over and over what had happened in the kitchen. She berated herself for not being more firm, then burned with anger at the way his fingers had gripped her arms, and minutes later she’d cycle back to shame for not having pushed him away.
“You look amazing. I love this new style,” he said, reaching out and looping a dark, glossy curl around his finger.
“Thank you,” she managed, and stepped away. She had let her hair dry naturally, with just a bit of mousse to keep it from frizzing. The soft curls framed her face, and although Aunt Olympia would be horrified at her lack of sophistication, it felt pretty. Or, it had until Marcus had mentioned it. Now she wanted to pull her hair back into a ponytail and hide it away.
Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread Page 18
