Country Heaven

by Miles, Ava

  The smell of fresh–cut grass and magnolia flowers greeted her when she exited the truck. Her khaki Capri pants and red top seemed much too informal now, as did the gold sandals showcasing the red toes she’d painted in a fit of boredom yesterday.

  Rye headed toward the door, his boots dragging on the gravel. If this were where he was from, no wonder he never talked about it. Plantation–style money was a far cry from the rabble–rousing cowboy he presented himself to be. When he’d said they’d disowned him, she’d thought it a strange term. Seeing his family’s home, she understood. People with this kind of money had something to disown.

  She followed him and was watching the door when it suddenly burst open.

  “Rye!”

  A young blond woman in a pale cream suit and matching heels catapulted herself at him after dashing down the front steps of the veranda.

  He caught her with a grunt. “Amelia Ann.”

  His sister squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms tight around his neck. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Tory stood quietly to the side. She caught sight of Tammy, who was standing in front of the floor–length windows. There was a strange expression on her face as she watched her siblings—a combination of envy and hurt.

  Two young children marched out the door a few moments later, and Tory recognized them instantly from the photos Tammy had shown her. The young boy had on a pale blue shirt and matching shorts with a red bow tie that didn’t look like a clip–on. The young girl, a few years younger, had yellow butterfly barrettes in her hair and was wearing a pale pink dress. Both stared at their aunt and uncle before turning to look at Tory.

  “Hi, I’m Tory. I’m your Uncle Rye’s friend.”

  The boy held out his hand. “I’m Rory Morrison and this is my sister, Annabelle.”

  Tory sank to her haunches and gently took his hand. “Nice to meet you.” She looked up as Tammy stepped through the front door after her kids. “Hello, Tammy.”

  Annabelle stood behind her brother. “Mama, her name sounds like Rory’s. You know, like in my Dr. Seuss books.”

  “Yes, honey. It’s called a rhyme.”

  Annabelle shuffled forward. “Our Granddaddy is sick.”

  Tory nodded. “Yes, your mother told us. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Thank you for coming, Rye,” Tammy said softly, her eyes widening a bit, like she couldn’t believe he was actually there.

  Rye tucked Amelia Ann against his side. “Where is he?”

  “He’s upstairs. With Mama.”

  His jaw clenched. “Amelia Ann, this is Tory Simmons. She’s getting her doctorate in cultural anthropology, but she’s cooking for me while she’s on summer vacation and is the best cook I’ve ever met. She’s also a good friend.”

  Amelia Ann reached out a hand, surprise flitting across her face before polite regard won out. “Nice to meet you.”

  So he hadn’t mentioned he was bringing her.

  “And these must be my nephew and niece,” Rye said. “Hey, kids. I’m your Uncle Rye. Last time I saw you was at Granddaddy Crenshaw’s funeral a few years back. You’ve grown quite a bit since then.”

  Rory did not hold out his hand to Rye like he had with her. He went over and took Tammy’s. “Our daddy calls you bad names.”

  “Rory!” Tammy rebuked.

  Rye’s smile was tight. “It’s okay. I’m sure your daddy does, son. I probably deserve them.” He knelt on one knee in front of the boy. “I used to say things I wasn’t supposed to at your age too. Still do. But I’m your uncle, and I don’t have any problem with you. Okay?”

  The boy’s brows scrunched together. “Yes. Sir.”

  “Good.” He turned to Annabelle. “And aren’t you the prettiest little darlin’ I’ve ever seen? You look just like your mama did at your age. Come give your Uncle Rye a kiss.”

  Annabelle waited for Tammy’s nod and then sashayed forward, leaning in to kiss Rye’s cheek. “Your goatee tickles.”

  “Well, let’s go inside then, shall we?” Amelia Ann declared.

  “Yes, by all means,” he said, standing. His drawl was exaggerated. “Ladies.”

  His gallantry was as false as his image, and Tory knew he was acting like that just to rile Tammy. But his sister refrained from sniping back at him. She led the way, only stopping to throw a warning glance at him over her shoulder. Tory crossed the threshold, wanting desperately to give them some privacy.

  Amelia Ann took her elbow and gave her a friendly smile. “We’ll get you some rosemary lemonade while Rye visits Daddy, and you can tell us about life on tour.”

  Thank heavens. Being in the room when Rye saw his father for the first time in god knows how long didn’t seem appropriate. She gave him a half–hearted wave as his sister pulled her through the door and steered her toward the kitchen, Tammy and Annabelle trailing in their wake. Rye didn’t even seem to notice.

  ***

  His nephew hung back, letting the ladies file through the door first. Rye lightly squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “After you, son.”

  The way he tiptoed inside made Rye tug at his collar for air. His mama had always hated noise, and she’d ordered them to be as silent as possible. Seemed some things hadn’t changed.

  “Welcome,” he read aloud as he stepped onto the yellow–stenciled mat. “Yeah, right.”

  Inhaling deeply, he stepped into his childhood home. In a reflexive gesture, he took off his cowboy hat and slapped it on a table in the foyer before heading up the curving staircase. There was a new gray carpet runner on the black walnut hardwood stairs, but the railing was still white. His Mama must have redecorated. When he was a kid, she’d averaged about five years between projects. Family antiques remained where they always did, but details like furniture, curtains, art work, knickknacks, lamps, and paint color changed. The house was his Mama’s canvas. He’d always found her endless quest for perfection stifling.

  His palms turned damp suddenly, and he wiped them on his jeans.

  His parents’ bedroom lay at the end of the hall.

  Memories washed over him as he walked down the hall, none of them pleasant. Well, he was here, wasn’t he? No turning back now. His stomach pitched as he entered their bedroom. His mama’s signature rose fragrance drifted to his nose. The mahogany four–poster bed where his daddy lay had been in the family for four generations.

  Hampton Hollins looked commanding even in a navy polo and tan slacks, propped up against the headboard by fluffy white pillows, a John Grisham paperback at his side. His color was a shade lighter than the healthy tan Rye remembered, but while his blue eyes looked tired, he seemed as alert as if he were facing one of his jury trials.

  Mama was perched on the bed next to him in a sage green suit, her grandmama’s pink pearls on her slender neck. Her hair was coiffed in a French twist, showcasing the lustrous blond highlights she had faithfully applied twice a month since turning thirty. Seeing her, he felt that old hurt of never having measured up.

  “Sir. Mama.” The words were stilted, but he could think of nothing more to say.

  His daddy’s face grew taut, and he reached for his wife’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Rye. Thank you for coming.” He tried to smile. “It means a lot.”

  Rye shifted on his feet. There was no mistaking the uncharacteristic emotion in his daddy’s voice, so at least someone here wanted him besides Amelia Ann. Silence descended, save the ticking of his mama’s antique clock on her armoire.

  Yeah, his mama wasn’t going to greet him, and his daddy seemed to understand that.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” he asked.

  “Better. Margaret, why don’t you go downstairs? I’d like to speak to Rye alone.”

  Mama smoothed the coverlet after she stood, erasing the wrinkle in the embroidered blue and white bedspread. “Of course, darlin’.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Just ring the bell if you need anything. I’ll be up to check on you when you’ve finished chatting.”

&nbs
p; Again, no reference to Rye. He might as well have been invisible. Well, he hadn’t expected anything else.

  Her posture was the same—ramrod straight, shoulders pulled back. A lady never slouched. As she passed him on the way out, she gave him a sharp glance, which triggered his old response to her.

  He hooked his hands in his belt, slouching. “I promise not to have him carousin’ or drinkin’, Mama. At least not yet.”

  She straightened, appearing an inch taller. “Well, at least you had the sense not to wear your cowboy hat in the house.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mama. It’s downstairs. I’ll be sure to put it on later when we have tea in the parlor.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” his daddy said. “Margaret, please go downstairs. Rye, why don’t you come over here?”

  Mama walked stiffly out of the bedroom.

  “And shut the door, Rye. It wouldn’t surprise me if your mama tried to eavesdrop on our conversation. Did you think I didn’t know?” he said, clearly noticing Rye’s shocked expression. “I know your Mama’s tactics, just as she knows mine. Usually I let her listen, but not this time. Come sit down.”

  Rye walked over and froze when his daddy patted the place his mama had left. The seat he took was half on the bed, half off.

  His daddy’s hands joined prayer–style on his stomach. “I’ve had some time to think about what I wanted to say to you… Well, I figured the best way to get through to you was to produce some evidence. My key chain is on my dresser. Would you mind retrieving it?”

  Rye did as instructed, his heart pounding in his ears. The keys jingled when he gave the chain back to his daddy.

  “Thank you. Now, take the lock box out of the bottom drawer of my nightstand and set it down beside me.”

  After he did as he was asked, Hampton inserted the key and opened the lid.

  His breathing hitched when he saw what was inside—a collection of his CDs. Oh, dear Lord.

  Daddy’s hands trembled as he removed them. “I’ve bought every CD you’ve put out, and I listen to them in my car on the way to work. I even downloaded your music onto my phone.”

  A barrage of conflicting emotions swept through Rye. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. He’d never expected to learn that his daddy had given his career a single thought.

  The older man suddenly looked his age. “I bought your CDs in the beginning because I wanted to see what meant so much to you that you would break off your engagement, leave Vandy right before graduating from law school, and turn your back on my business.”

  His voice grew hoarse, and he coughed to clear it. Rye clutched the bedspread.

  “The first time I heard your voice,” Daddy continued, “I had to pull the car over to the shoulder. I couldn’t believe that it was my son singing.”

  The acceptance he’d craved for years grabbed him by the throat. Rye didn’t realize he’d stopped blinking until his eyes started smarting.

  “I’ve tried to understand who you really are by listening to your music… Still, I’m sure it’s not the full picture.”

  No, but it was as honest as he ever let himself be.

  “I don’t want things to be the way they’ve been, Rye,” Daddy continued. “For a long while, I didn’t know what to do about you, and then there’s your mama… She has definite opinions, and I don’t like to go against her. But after that quadruple bypass, life doesn’t look the same.”

  Rye had to look away from the entreaty in his father’s eyes. Lord, he was feeling a world of hurt.

  Daddy leaned back against the pillows, his face turning from milk white to gray. “I’m sorry, Rye. For disowning you.” Their gazes finally met, and his father’s eyes were wet, something Rye had never seen before, not even at Granddaddy Crenshaw’s funeral. “For everything.”

  The antique clock ticked loudly in the silence. Rye rubbed his raw throat. “It’s okay, sir,” he whispered. Even to his own ears, the words sounded too simple.

  “It was hard, Rye. When you broke your engagement so close to the wedding and announced you were leaving law school to become a country singer, it seemed like you were spitting in the face of everything we’d ever wanted for you. I’d hoped we’d…work together…with the law.”

  “I know that, sir. But none of those things…” Ah, dammit, he might as well tell the truth. “I didn’t want them.”

  ”Well, it’s pretty clear that you’ve found something that makes you happy. And you’re incredibly successful at it. I don’t rightly know where we go from here, but I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

  Rye’s head jerked up. That he hadn’t expected. At one time, he’d hungered for those words.

  Daddy fiddled with his collar, drawing Rye’s attention to the bandage underneath.

  “It must have taken a hell of a lot of courage to go against our expectations, the life we’d laid out for you. I never understood until I heard you sing. You love music like I love the law. So, good for you. Granddaddy Crenshaw was right. I should have listened to him, but I was too upset to see straight.”

  Chaos had been their music back then, but now Rye was removed enough from it to understand his own complicity. “I didn’t handle things particularly well either.”

  Daddy held out his hand. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Rye. I don’t expect it, but I’m asking you to think about it. I’ll understand if you can’t shake my hand just now, but I hope you will one day.”

  Rye took his hand.

  Hampton squeezed it firmly and held it for a few moments. “Thank you.”

  No… Thank you, Daddy, he wanted to say, but couldn’t squeeze the words out.

  “When the doctor gives me leave to travel,” he continued, “I’m going to come see you in concert. I don’t care what your mama says. Things are going to be different from now on, and she’s just going to have to get used to it.”

  Rye’s mouth parted. A concert? This was more than a private reconciliation. Daddy was willing to acknowledge him in public. It was more than he’d ever imagined.

  “I’d be honored, sir.”

  He glanced down again at the pile of CDs. Breaking Tradition, his first album, was on top. It had been an instant hit. He’d poured himself into it like a drowning man, not knowing it would resonate with millions of fans and turn him into a star. If he hadn’t been estranged from his family, he wouldn’t have had anything to write.

  “I have to admit I’m at a loss for words. I…never expected this.”

  “I wasn’t a good father to you or the girls, and I want to change that now, even though I don’t exactly know how.” Hampton sighed. “But I’m trying. Maybe you can sing me something a little later on. If it wouldn’t be an imposition.”

  His throat squeezed shut another inch. “I’d be happy to, sir.”

  Daddy laid his hand over Rye’s again. “Good. I’ll see you later then, son.” And the last word was uttered with hesitation. And hope.

  The term seemed foreign after so long. He’d stopped thinking of himself as anyone’s son, but now he’d been offered that role again, by a man he barely recognized. Rye rose on shaky legs and headed to the bedroom door.

  “Oh, and you can wear your hat in here when we’re alone,” Daddy called. “Just don’t do it in front of your Mama. You know what a stickler she is about that kind of thing.”

  As a gesture, it was telling. His father had always stood on ceremony, too. “Yes, sir. Rest now.” He let himself out the room, closing the door behind him. All his energy exhausted, he sagged against the wall and closed his eyes.

  God. His head was spinning like he’d been doing wheelies with his truck.

  “Rye, is there something wrong?”

  Rye jerked upright. His mama stood by the staircase with her hand on the carved newel post, her wedding and Crenshaw family rings glittering in the light from the second floor front window. He took a moment before responding. He’d bet twenty bucks she’d been hovering upstairs, waiting for him to come out.

  “No, Mama, ever
ything is fine,” he said as he passed her, heading down the stairs. She’d trained him well. Never show true emotion and say everything was fine even if the house was on fire and you’d just caught your fiancé in bed with another man.

  When he reached the foyer, he called, “Tory,” since no one was sitting in the front parlor.

  “In the kitchen,” came her reply.

  She was sitting at the table with Amelia Ann and the children, having a glass of the standard Hollins rosemary lemonade, if he had to guess, and boy didn’t that take him back. When was the last time he’d had lemonade?

  “What are y’all talking about?” Rye asked, striding forward.

  “We were just asking Tory about her favorite recipes,” Amelia Ann said.

  Which meant his sister hadn’t really known how to engage their guest and had selected a safe topic. Well, it had probably surprised her to see Tory. He hadn’t mentioned he was bringing her because he hadn’t wanted any push–back. Or questions about why he was bringing his cook.

  “How nice.”

  “Speaking of which. Are you hungry, Rye?” Tory asked. “It’s well past dinnertime.”

  And it was clear no one had planned a supper for them. Mama’s doing, no doubt.

  “Ah…we thought you’d get in later,” Amelia Ann murmured, trying to cover up the rudeness.

  Tory rose fluidly from the chair. “No worries. Amelia Ann, do you have any sandwich fixings?”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, suddenly needing to escape. He wanted to spend time with Amelia Ann, but he was too raw after talking to Daddy.

  “Well, you’re growling like a bear,” Tory said, “and it’s best to feed you when you’re like that.”

  “Tory, I said I’m not hungry.” He scanned the kitchen. The gleaming perfection made his stomach curdle, like he’d been struck with the flu. The counters sparkled without clutter. There were green pears ripening in a silver decorator bowl. Stainless steel appliances shone without smudges. Mama still didn’t allow pictures or school drawings to mar her canvas, he noticed.

  Nothing had changed.

  He turned to walk out, but halted when he saw Mama standing stricken behind him.