The supper Mama put out for them of cold fried chicken and slices of fresh bread slathered with Mama’s butter and cold cider from the cellar tasted better than any meal Jeselle could ever remember.
“I hope there’s fried chicken in France.” Whitmore grinned.
Mrs. Bellmont put down her piece of chicken and wiped her hands delicately with a cloth napkin, ironed so carefully by Mama. “Some southern traditions need to come with us. Fried chicken being one. And your mama and I. We’ve discussed it, and we’re coming too.”
“Mama, really?”
“Well, Miz Bellmont needs me.”
“I surely do.”
“And we don’t want to be an ocean away from our babies,” said Mama.
“Will you have us?” asked Mrs. Bellmont.
“Mother, of course,” said Whitmore, rising from the table to embrace her.
Jeselle put her hand on her belly, feeling the baby move, as if reacting to the news too. It was then that she first realized what Frank Bellmont’s death meant. Whit and Mrs. Bellmont were free to do as they pleased with the family’s fortunes.
When Mama put out a peach pie, the discussion turned to the future.
“I think you should buy land in France’s southern region, where grapes grow,” said Mrs. Tyler.
“How do you know about that?” Nate asked her with an amused expression.
“I read it in a book. And it’s nothing to tease me about, Nathaniel Fye.”
They all laughed, even Mrs. Bellmont, who had watched Lydia Tyler all evening with a curious yet reserved expression.
“You will visit, won’t you, Nate?” asked Mrs. Bellmont.
“Yes. Lydia and I would love to,” said Nate.
Jeselle glanced over at Whit. He saw it too. Finally Nate had found happiness with the right woman. They fit, just like us, she thought. Now her eyes stung. She went to the sink to hide her tears and put her hands in the soapy water, thinking of every dish Mama had washed, every meal made, the mountains of laundry washed and ironed. The room fell silent. It was all there, between them, like a photograph of a troubled time: the injustice of inequality, the reality that money had the power to change circumstances.
Then, quietly but with a firm resolve, Mrs. Bellmont spoke, “Cassie, wherever we live, you’ll have a room of your own, upstairs. Next to mine.”
Mama raised an eyebrow. “Won’t have none of that unless I continue to look after you. I take care of folks and their homes. That’s what I do.”
“I defer to your good judgment, Cassie Thorton,” Mrs. Bellmont said.
“I might like to learn to read,” said Mama.
Jeselle stared at her. “Mama? After all these years?”
“Well, Miz Bellmont needs a new student,” said Mama.
Mrs. Bellmont clapped her hands together. “I surely do.”
The remnant of the pie was nothing but sticky sauce on the bottom of the dessert plates when the conversation turned to Europe, of the troubles there: Hitler’s quest for global power, his hatred of Jews and belief that white Germans were the supreme race. To Jeselle, the descriptions of this by Mrs. Tyler sounded eerily familiar. The crease between Mama’s eyebrows deepened. “Surely the hatred we know is better than moving halfway round the world to hatred we’re ignorant of,” Mama said to Nate.
“I understand your fears,” Nate said. “But there’s no better place for you now, with the way things are. Someday it’ll be different.”
“Not so sure ’bout that,” Mama said, gathering up the supper dishes. She muttered to herself at the sink, scrubbing the plates and silverware like they’d been rolling around in cow manure. Nate and Lydia exchanged worried glances, but Mrs. Bellmont motioned for them to stay silent as she took a sip of her tea. Jeselle understood; Mama might fuss all the way to France, but nothing would keep her from getting on that boat.
“Clare, I wonder if you might allow me to play at the piano one more time?” asked Nate.
Mrs. Bellmont looked startled. Her teacup clattered as she put it back on the saucer. “Play?”
“Lydia and I play together, Clare,” he said, a tiptoe quality to his voice. “Three-handed on two pianos. But tonight, two-handed on one.”
Mrs. Bellmont suddenly seemed quite concerned with smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from the tablecloth.
“We might have a tour in the future.” He spoke in the same soft voice.
Mrs. Bellmont raised her chin, gazing at him with sorrowful eyes. “Oh, Nate, is it possible?”
“It is, Clare. After all this time, a second chance,” said Nate.
“I’m so pleased.” Mrs. Bellmont reached across the table with her delicate hand that always made Jeselle think of fine bone china and patted Lydia’s broad hand. “It would be lovely to hear you play together.” The women smiled at each other, shy almost, like two children meeting for the first time.
The two musicians sat straight-backed on the piano bench, his right hand and her left hand poised over the keys, their free hands resting between them, almost touching. Nate whispered the time as their torsos moved together in preparation. And then, as if one player, they began. It was the Gershwin piece—music of their collective story, their shared pain. Jeselle shivered and reached for Whitmore’s hand. Mrs. Bellmont, a lace handkerchief neglected on her lap, let tears roll down her cheeks unhindered. But as the music continued, Jeselle detected something else enter the room, almost a physical entity that moved about, loosening the ache they all held and replacing it with a tenderness that only comes from forgiveness of the past and acceptance of the now and hope for the future.
Mrs. Bellmont and Jeselle walked with linked arms in the twilight. The birds were quiet, asleep for the night so the only sound was of water lapping against the shore, bringing a sense of tranquility. They stopped at the roses, in full glorious bloom. The petals seemed to drip fragrance, having warmed in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Bellmont held a yellow rose in the palm of her hand, caressing the petals between her thumb and middle finger.
“I’m sorry about Oberlin,” said Jeselle.
“We’ll find another college for you. Over in France. We’ll find a way for both you and Whit to go.”
“Whit might prefer an apprenticeship with an artist.”
Her eyes turned serious. “I suppose you’re right. We can do that now.”
“What about the baby? How will I attend college with a baby?”
She laughed. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be surprised if either one of us has a chance to hold the child with your mother around.”
Jeselle laughed, too, as they walked across the lawn toward the lake. At the water’s edge, they paused. Jeselle moved some pebbles in a circle with her foot. “Mrs. Bellmont, why did you do it? Why did you educate me?”
She glanced out toward the water. “It was selfish, really. Teaching you made me feel important. Each time I saw the light of new knowledge appear in your eyes, I was significant.” She smiled, turning toward Jeselle. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in this life, Jes. Only God knows how many. But, everything else aside, I’m a teacher.” She smiled and touched the side of Jeselle’s face. “When I looked into your eyes and saw that natural curiosity, that yearning for knowledge, I would have walked to hell and back to give it to you.” She paused. “I saw myself in you, too, and I wanted you to have a chance for a better life. Once I saw how gifted you were, I set about trying to figure a way for you to keep going.”
“I don’t understand why you call it selfish,” said Jeselle.
“Because you were my accomplishment, my something that mattered. Someday, when you’re an author or a doctor or a teacher, I’ll think—I helped make you.” She plucked a wilted petal from a yellow rose. “I loved you, too, Jes. You and Cassie are family to me.”
Jeselle looked away, pretending to slap a mosquito.
“When Frank wanted me, all those years ago, I told my grandmother that I didn’t love him, that I’d rather stay in that shell of a town and be a teacher.
For the only time in my life, she lashed out at me, scolding me for what she called my romantic view of things. Told me life wasn’t like the books I read.”
“Mama said that to me once,” said Jeselle.
“A proposal from a rich man was the best it got for girls like me, my grandmother said, and I best take what the good Lord offered. She shamed me. So I did it. I said yes. And I’ve suffered some and profited some. Every choice is this way.” She paused, like she was searching for the right words. “Jes, your mother, she’s like my grandmother. Things have been hard for her all her life, and it causes a person to be afraid of change because in their experience change usually brings something worse. She’s been holding on tight, hoping you wouldn’t start dreaming of something better only to be disappointed and bitter when it didn’t come.”
“But if you don’t wish for more, how can things ever get better?”
“That’s for you to teach your child.”
Jeselle looked at the grass, trying not to choke on her words. “That’s what you gave to me—a chance to dream bigger.”
She pointed toward the house. “Let’s go inside. Whit’s waiting for us.” She brushed her fingers on the roundest part of Jeselle’s belly. “To think there will be a child where there was once an empty space.”
Once inside the house, Mrs. Bellmont motioned toward the study. “You write in there tonight. At a desk, where you belong.”
Epilogue
From Jeselle Thorton’s journal.
* * *
June 22, 1934
Night has come. Fireflies dance over the lake. It’s quiet except for the steady chirp of crickets. The rest have gone to bed, all exhausted from these trying days.
And, like the other firsts of this new life that Whit, Nate, and Mrs. Tyler forged for me—that Mrs. Bellmont began the first day she opened a book and taught me to read—I sit at a desk only white men have used. Every so often I look up and see myself in the picture windows, an educated black woman, pen in hand.
Tonight, I have more questions than answers. How do two such divergent people as Frank and Clare Bellmont coexist in the world, let alone marry? How do they have both a child like Frances and a child like Whitmore? How does a time and place hold both the men in the white hoods and Pastor Ferguson? How do the men of the Klan claim they are the chosen people of God and not see that their hatred is in direct opposition to the teachings of Jesus? How can all of this be of the same world? I suppose I won’t know until the end, when I face my maker.
How did Mama find the courage to do what she did? Risking it all for those she loved? Perhaps someday I’ll understand how, but I hope I never have to be that brave, that self-sacrificing. But perhaps none of us gets through life unscathed. Perhaps, most especially, mothers.
Still, I search for meaning in our suffering, for understanding of this world so bursting with contradictions. Whit finds hints in the beauty of nature, splashing what he sees upon a blank canvas. Nate and Lydia hear it in the music or perhaps between the silences. Mama pours her energy into the practical care of others, while Mrs. Bellmont and I seek enlightenment in the books that line her library. And me, on this page, where I write and write—seeking clarity. But, as Virginia Woolf says, perhaps meaning can only be found unexpectedly, like matches struck in the dark.
Whit tells me all good begins from one bold move that spreads like ripples on a still lake. But I think of it as coming in flashes, which, when combined, make a dazzling light—like the fireflies outside this window. Their small sparks are reminiscent of the brave moments of kindness, of compassion, the giving of one’s self to another that ordinary men and women did for me, that made me who I am. These fireflies in the night sky are a flicker of hope, a minuscule miracle, a fighting for love over hatred. I bask in their collective, speckled light, knowing I am here because of them. For in the radiant flashes we see that love remains to conquer the dark night.
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About the Author
Tess Thompson is a mother and bestselling novelist of romantic suspense. Like her characters in the River Valley Collection, Tess hails from a small town in southern Oregon, and will always feel like a small town girl, despite the fact she’s lived in Seattle for over twenty-five years.
She loves music and dancing, books and bubble baths, cooking and wine, movies and snuggling. She cries at sappy commercials and thinks kissing in the rain should be done whenever possible. Although she tries to act like a lady, there may or may not have been a few times in the last several years when she’s gotten slightly carried away watching the Seattle Seahawks play, but that could also just be a nasty rumor.
Tess lives in a suburb of Seattle, Washington with her two daughters and two cats. They recently combined their home with the love of her life along with his two sons and three cats. This modern “Brady Bunch” family — yes, you read it correctly — four kids and five cats — live in a suburb of Seattle, Washington. In spite of their busy household, Tess manages to turn out three books a year, keeping her fans satisfied with such hits as “Riversong,” “Riverbend,” and “Riverstar” as well as many others.
@TessWrites
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