Sealed with a promise

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Sealed with a promise Page 26

by Mary Margret Daughtridge


  “Yes, ma’am, that I am.”

  “I ne­ed so­me­one to set up the chil­d­ren’s tab­le in the fa­mily ro­om. I ha­ve to le­ave it un­til the last mi­nu­te. Co­me with me.”

  She led him thro­ugh the crowd spil­ling in­to the wi­de hall. Pic­kett’s sis­ters Gra­ce and Sa­rah Bea and the­ir hus­bands we­re the­re, along with ot­hers he had met at the wed­ding. Oc­ca­si­onal­ly, she stop­ped to in­t­ro­du­ce him.

  “Char­les,” she sa­id, to a twitchy, hun­ted-lo­oking yo­ung man of abo­ut six­te­en. “Chi­ef Du­la­ude is go­ing to set up the tab­les for me. Will you help him?”

  In a few mi­nu­tes he un­der­s­to­od why Miss Lilly Ha­le had as­sig­ned him to the tab­le de­ta­il and de­sig­na­ted Char­les as his hel­per. In short or­der, three te­ena­ge boys who had be­en han­ging out with te­en-angst ca­su­al­ness in the hall, un­wil­ling to align them­sel­ves with the chil­d­ren in the fa­mily ro­om or the ol­der adults in the par­lors, ap­pe­ared. Two he re­cog­ni­zed we­re Gra­ce’s sons, and one, he wasn’t su­re. That they wan­ted to hang out with a SE­AL was cle­ar. That they didn’t want to align them­sel­ves with Char­les, equ­al­ly cle­ar.

  If the­re was one thing he knew how to do, it was get a bunch of yo­ung guys wor­king to­get­her. “Hey, men.” Do-Lord wa­ved them over. “Gi­ve us a hand.”

  “Emmie! You’re he­re!” Pic­kett car­ri­ed a stack of li­nen nap­kins. She drop­ped them on a tab­le and held out her arms.

  “Pic­kett!”

  Pic­kett held her at arm’s length. “Wa­it a mi­nu­te-I’ve got to lo­ok at you! Turn aro­und. Oh, my, you lo­ok ter­ri­fic!”

  Emmie was glad she’d chan­ged in­to her new char­co­al blue slacks and la­ven­der-blue wo­ven silk swe­ater. She lo­oked go­od. She was dres­sed just right, and the­re was not­hing so sa­tis­f­ying, she sud­denly dis­co­ve­red, as sin­ce­re com­p­li­ments from a go­od wo­man fri­end.

  Pic­kett’s eyes we­re wi­de with won­der. “Emmie, what hap­pe­ned?’

  Emmie la­ug­hed. “I fi­nal­ly no­ti­ced the­re was so­met­hing mis­sing from my li­fe. Me.”

  Once the tab­les we­re set up and co­ve­red with whi­te li­nen cloths, and cha­irs we­re fet­c­hed from va­ri­o­us pla­ces aro­und the ho­use, they we­re sum­mo­ned to the lar­ge do­ub­le par­lor whe­re a grand pi­ano had be­en ope­ned.

  Lilly Ha­le cal­led for at­ten­ti­on. “James,” she an­no­un­ced in­di­ca­ting a scho­lar­ly-lo­oking man in his fif­ti­es, “is go­ing to re­ad us the Chris­t­mas story from Lu­ke. Then I’ve per­su­aded Han­nah and Em­mie to sing.”

  Chil­d­ren we­re shus­hed, and James ope­ned the Bib­le and be­gan to re­ad. “And it ca­me to pass in tho­se days, a dec­ree went out from Ca­esar Augus­tus that all the world sho­uld be ta­xed.”

  “And they ca­me and fo­und Mary and Joseph and the ba­be lying in a man­ger.”

  Char­les to­ok his se­at at the pi­ano. Em­mie and Han­nah, a dark-ha­ired girl abo­ut fo­ur­te­en, sto­od in the cur­ve of the pi­ano. Em­mie squ­e­ezed Han­nah’s hand and nod­ded to Char­les to be­gin. For all his yo­uth, from the first no­tes, Char­les pla­yed with un­mis­ta­kab­le mas­tery. “Away in a man­ger…” Over the glis­te­ning no­tes of the pi­ano, vo­ices po­ured li­ke silk, fin­ding sil­ver cur­ves in the fab­ric of spa­ce-tra­cing them with the­ir song. The sim­p­le joy of al­lo­wing mu­sic to ma­ni­fest thro­ugh them sho­ne in three fa­ces. They knew they had be­en gi­ven a glim­p­se of the mystery from which all li­fe springs.

  Chapter 26

  “Emmie,” Aunt Lilly Ha­le di­rec­ted, “I want you and Do-Lord to sit at an adult tab­le. Pic­kett, you too. The­re are eno­ugh adults to su­per­vi­se the chil­d­ren. Tyler will be fi­ne with them.”

  In the do­ub­le par­lors, fur­ni­tu­re had be­en pus­hed back and two din­ner tab­les spre­ad with snowy li­nen. To ac­com­mo­da­te all the di­ners, cha­irs from every cor­ner of the ho­use had be­en pres­sed in­to ser­vi­ce to aug­ment the re­gu­lar di­ning cha­irs-anot­her job as­sig­ned to Do-Lord and his crew.

  Ca­leb set his pla­te be­si­de Em­mie’s, held her cha­ir, and then Pic­kett’s. He was re­ady to ta­ke his own se­at when the do­or­bell rang.

  “My go­od­ness! That’s the front do­or. Do-Lord, you’re up.” Lilly Ha­le sa­id from her se­at at the he­ad of the tab­le. “Wo­uld you an­s­wer it ple­ase?”

  On the thres­hold sto­od Char­lot­te Cal­ho­un and Vicky. As so­on as she saw him, Vicky threw her arms aro­und his wa­ist. “You are he­re! I told Mot­her you wo­uld be.” She pul­led back, smi­ling tre­mu­lo­usly. “I told. It wasn’t fa­ir for you to get in tro­ub­le when it was me.”

  Aunt Lilly Ha­le ap­pe­ared be­hind Do-Lord. “Why Char­lot­te!” She qu­ickly mas­te­red her sur­p­ri­se. “How won­der­ful you co­uld co­me. And lit­tle Vicky too. Vicky, the chil­d­ren are eating in the fa­mily ro­om. Run on back.”

  “I ho­pe we’re not in­t­ru­ding,” Char­lot­te apo­lo­gi­zed to Lilly Ha­le. “I know we sent reg­rets to yo­ur in­vi­ta­ti­on, but we got free at the last mi­nu­te. Vicky wan­ted to co­me so much.”

  Lilly Ha­le wa­ved that away. “You’re fa­mily. Of co­ur­se, you’re wel­co­me. Let me ta­ke yo­ur co­at, and Do-Lord will show you how to get to the di­ning ro­om to ser­ve yo­ur­self.”

  Vicky lo­oked to her mot­her for per­mis­si­on and at her nod ran down the cor­ri­dor.

  “This way,” he sa­id, le­ading Char­lot­te in­to the hall. “With so many tab­les set up, the­re’s only one path open to the fo­od.”

  When they we­re out of ear­s­hot, she stop­ped him. “I’m so gra­te­ful you we­re the­re this af­ter­no­on. I had to co­me and thank you af­ter Vicky told me what hap­pe­ned. I’m sorry you had a run in with Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild. He wasn’t spe­aking for me or my hus­band. You will al­ways be wel­co­me in our ho­use. Vicky is… she’s a han­d­ful.”

  Do- Lord sho­ok his he­ad. “She’s re­so­ur­ce­ful, that’s for su­re.”

  “I want to do so­met­hing for you-”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Not­hing is re­qu­ired.” When he saw she was re­ady to pro­test he ad­ded, “Re­al­ly ma’am.” He let his vo­ice har­den in­to a com­mand. “The less sa­id the bet­ter.”

  Char­lot­te ac­qu­i­es­ced with a nod that sa­id she was only tem­po­ra­rily ag­re­e­ing. “I ho­pe you will at le­ast co­me to din­ner. My hus­band ne­ver got a chan­ce to spe­ak to you and wel­co­me you in­to our ho­me.”

  “Thank you for ma­king Char­lot­te fe­el at ho­me. She is fa­mily, on her mot­her’s si­de, and ever sin­ce they mo­ved to Wil­min­g­ton she’s be­en in­vi­ted to my Chris­t­mas din­ner, but she’s ne­ver co­me.” Lilly Ha­le was in full spa­te. Do-Lord let the com­for­tab­le so­und drift aro­und him and didn’t worry abo­ut ne­eding to reply. If she wan­ted him to say so­met­hing, she’d tell him. “Char­lot­te told me Vicky in­sis­ted they co­me to­night. I un­der­s­tand that Char­lot­te and Te­ague le­ad busy li­ves, but I’m glad to see she’s fi­nal­ly ta­king her res­pon­si­bi­lity to ma­ke su­re Vicky knows her co­usins se­ri­o­usly. My la­te hus­band, Gar­son, used to com­p­la­in abo­ut all the fuss. And I’d say to him, ‘Gar­son, a fa­mily is not so­met­hing that just hap­pens, you must bu­ild it.’ I star­ted ha­ving this party when our chil­d­ren we­re grown and had mo­ved away from he­re. I saw that the gran­d­c­hil­d­ren we­re gro­wing up not un­der­s­tan­ding how they we­re re­la­ted. This is the ho­mep­la­ce.”

  “Are all the­se pe­op­le kin?”

  “I al­ways in­vi­te so­me de­ar fri­ends who ha­ve be­co­me ho­no­rary fa­mily mem­bers-li­ke Em­mie. Af­ter all, a fa­mily do­esn’t be­gin with blo­od ti­es.
A fa­mily starts with ti­es of the he­art.”

  “Aunt Lilly Ha­le,” one of the wo­men wor­king at the sink cal­led, hol­ding up a bowl and sa­ucer all ma­de in­to one, “can this gravy bo­at go in the dis­h­was­her?”

  “Yes, oh, and Gra­ce, be su­re to co­unt the sil­ver be­fo­re it’s put away.” Em­mie and Gra­ce, who we­re drying a mo­un­ta­in of sil­ver uten­sils, tra­ded a sec­ret smi­le.

  “I saw that.” The mat­ri­arch la­ug­hed. “You’re too yo­ung to re­mem­ber the Chris­t­mas eve we sif­ted gar­ba­ge at 10:00 p.m. lo­oking for one of the sil­ver forks.”

  “Oh, Lord, Ma­ma, I re­mem­ber.” The fif­t­yish wo­man mar­ri­ed to the James who had re­ad from the Bib­le, lo­oked up from the lef­to­vers she was orga­ni­zing. “It was cold, and you ma­de Daddy put the gar­ba­ge bar­rels-the hu­mon­go­us oil drums we used back then-on the pic­kup and dri­ve them up to the ho­use whe­re the­re was eno­ugh light. You ma­de every one of us chil­d­ren spre­ad the gar­ba­ge out in pans on the porch the­re. Daddy was cus­sing a blue stre­ak. But you sa­id the fork was in the gar­ba­ge, and you we­re right.”

  “After that I ma­de a ru­le that no gar­ba­ge co­uld be car­ri­ed from the ho­use un­til all the sil­ver was ac­co­un­ted for.”

  The ex­c­han­ges had the well-worn fe­el of a story that had be­en told over and over. Strop­he and an­tis­t­rop­he, ever­yo­ne knew the words, knew what ca­me next, and the dif­fe­rent vo­ices flo­wed to­get­her so se­am­les­sly it was li­ke a story told in cho­rus.

  “And you ma­de su­re you ta­ught all yo­ur da­ug­h­ters-”

  “And da­ug­h­ters-in-law-”

  “And gran­d­da­ug­h­ters-”

  “And ni­eces-”

  “And gre­at-ni­eces-”

  “And gre­at-gre­at nep­hews,” sa­id Gra­ce’s son, re­tur­ning a cha­ir to its pla­ce at the kit­c­hen tab­le.

  “Let me show you the we ro­om we ad­ded when my mot­her ca­me to li­ve with us,” Lilly Ha­le told Do-Lord con­ver­sa­ti­onal­ly.

  “Sit down,” she com­man­ded in a ste­ely to­ne as so­on as they we­re in a lar­ge bed­ro­om. She to­ok a cha­ir and in­di­ca­ted he sho­uld sit on the bed. “It’s pro­bably too so­on to ask this, but I no lon­ger ha­ve as much ti­me as I on­ce did. Old la­di­es are al­lo­wed much mo­re la­ti­tu­de than yo­ung wo­men to be ru­dely in­qu­isi­ti­ve,” she ex­p­la­ined. “I ta­ke sha­me­less ad­van­ta­ge of it.”

  He didn’t li­ke the fe­eling that he was be­ing cal­led to ac­co­unt for his ac­ti­ons. He didn’t li­ke it one bit. Still, Do-Lord had to smi­le at her charm.

  She fol­ded her hands in her lap and le­ve­led him with an un­com­p­ro­mi­sing lo­ok. “How se­ri­o­us are you abo­ut Em­mie?”

  “I’m re­ady to be as se­ri­o­us as she wants me to be.”

  “And Em­mie?” she prod­ded. “How do­es she fe­el?”

  Do- Lord de­ci­ded to push back. “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Be­ca­use I’m as­king you.” She tap­ped the up­hol­s­te­red arm of her cha­ir with one gnar­led fin­ger. She re­len­ted a lit­tle. “Emmie is sen­si­ti­ve. I don’t wish to em­bar­rass her or ma­ke her self-con­s­ci­o­us.”

  She had gi­ven a lit­tle. He co­uld gi­ve a lit­tle. “I ha­ven’t won her over to my way of thin­king yet. But I’m go­ing to try.”

  She di­ges­ted that wit­ho­ut com­ment. “Do you ha­ve a fa­mily?”

  “My mot­her is de­ad.”

  A tra­ce of sympathy flic­ke­red in her eyes, but her ex­p­res­si­on didn’t sof­ten. “And yo­ur fat­her?”

  “Was ne­ver in the pic­tu­re.”

  “He was not mar­ri­ed to yo­ur mot­her.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “And you we­re ra­ised wit­ho­ut a fat­her’s gu­idan­ce.” He’d ne­ver tho­ught of it in exactly that way. The­re was no ne­ed to reply. The facts spo­ke for them­sel­ves.

  “Pe­op­le who ha­ve be­en ra­ised wit­ho­ut fa­mily ti­es do not al­ways grasp fa­mily va­lu­es. I sus­pect that new hus­band of Pic­kett’s do­esn’t. Ho­we­ver, Pic­kett is qu­ite strong. She un­der­s­tands how a fa­mily fun­c­ti­ons and dysfun­c­ti­ons.” Lilly Ha­le smi­led at her lit­tle joke. “She’ll set him stra­ight.”

  Do- Lord was sud­denly con­fu­sed. Un­less he was mis­ta­ken, Pic­kett’s sis­ter Lyle was a les­bi­an. Jax didn’t ha­ve a prob­lem with that. “Do you me­an li­ke trying to ke­ep ho­mo­se­xu­als away from kids?”

  “Pshaw!” Do-Lord hadn’t he­ard the old-fas­hi­oned ex­c­la­ma­ti­on sin­ce he was a kid. It ma­de him fe­el con­nec­ted to the old lady-li­ke she was so­me­body he’d known a long ti­me. “So­me pe­op­le act li­ke ho­mo­se­xu­als only re­cently mo­ved in­to so­ci­ety. They ha­ve al­ways be­en among us. Al­ways be­en one of us. Let me tell you, if con­g­re­ga­ti­ons eli­mi­na­ted the­ir ho­mo­se­xu­al mem­bers, the mu­sic prog­rams of three-fo­urths of the chur­c­hes in this sta­te wo­uld col­lap­se. It was true se­venty ye­ars ago, and it’s true to­day.”

  “So, which fa­mily va­lu­es do you me­an?”

  “Kin­d­ness, de­vo­ti­on to one anot­her’s well-be­ing, res­pect, and res­pon­si­bi­lity for te­ac­hing the chil­d­ren as well as gu­ar­ding them from harm. And he­aping amo­unts of for­gi­ve­ness and to­le­ran­ce. Es­pe­ci­al­ly the last. Fa­mi­li­es are ma­de up of hu­man be­ings, not sa­ints. We are we­ak, sel­fish, and shor­t­sig­h­ted much of the ti­me, and we ma­ke mis­ta­kes as of­ten as we get it right.”

  Lilly Ha­le ca­me out of lec­tu­re mo­de and ga­ve him a we­ary smi­le. “You are clo­se to the he­ight of yo­ur physi­cal and men­tal po­wers with the na­tu­ral ar­ro­gan­ce of yo­uth. You don’t be­li­eve me. You think you’re dif­fe­rent. My boy-” On her lips the words so­un­ded li­ke a re­al en­de­ar­ment. “The­re will be ti­mes when you fa­il the pe­op­le you lo­ve most.”

  Aga­inst his will, he tho­ught of how he had en­dan­ge­red Jax and his te­am. And of his mot­her, lying so still, so si­lent, so be­a­uti­ful, whe­re the red light of the set­ting sun to­uc­hed her ha­ir.

  “The va­lu­es that I’m tal­king abo­ut de­mand we se­arch our own con­s­ci­en­ce, not the con­s­ci­en­ce of ot­hers. The­se are the va­lu­es that con­s­tantly in­vi­te us up to a hig­her stan­dard. And for­gi­ve us, and com­fort us when we ine­vi­tably fa­il. The­se are the va­lu­es that no­urish lo­ve. They will al­low a fa­mily to flo­urish in the go­od ti­mes and sur­vi­ve the bad ti­mes.”

  She had go­ne back in­to lec­tu­re mo­de. Still, he was lis­te­ning. Aga­inst his will, but lis­te­ning. He tho­ught of what he had pro­mi­sed Em­mie. “What abo­ut fi­de­lity and lo­yalty?”

  “They are go­od to ha­ve,” she al­lo­wed.

  “But?”

  “In the bad ti­mes, they will not be eno­ugh.”

  They we­re si­lent a mi­nu­te. “We’ve be­en ab­sent a long whi­le,” she sa­id at last. “Gi­ve me yo­ur hand. This cha­ir is too low. Al­ways was.”

  She didn’t re­le­ase his arm even af­ter she was stan­ding. In­s­te­ad, she le­aned on it as they ma­de the­ir way back to the no­ise and crowd. She hal­ted him in the hal­lway, be­hind the sta­irs. “What is yo­ur gi­ven na­me?” she as­ked out of the blue.

  “Ca­leb.”

  “What did yo­ur mot­her call you?”

  “That. Ca­leb.”

  “It’s a go­od na­me. Ca­leb was one of the two Is­ra­eli­te spi­es who told the truth. All the ot­her spi­es li­ed be­ca­use they didn’t ha­ve the co­ura­ge to go for­ward. They didn’t want to fa­ce what must be fa­ced to re­ach the Pro­mi­sed Land.

  “Ca­leb,” she sa­id as she re­su­med wal­king, “I ima­gi­ne Pic­kett’s
mot­her will want Em­mie to co­me ho­me for Chris­t­mas, es­pe­ci­al­ly if Pic­kett do­esn’t co­me. If she do­es, why don’t you plan to co­me and stay with me? My chil­d­ren are all mid­dle-aged and dull and mis­ta­kenly be­li­eve they’re sup­po­sed to ra­ise me now. I’ll enj­oy ha­ving a yo­ung per­son aro­und.”

  Do- Lord put the truck’s wi­pers on the­ir lo­west set­ting to de­al with the he­avy dew that kept con­den­sing on the win­d­s­hi­eld. The fo­il-co­ve­red lef­to­vers he’d pla­ced on the flo­or be­hind his se­at fil­led the cab with frag­rant re­min­ders of the fe­ast they had left.

  “Did you and Pic­kett get to talk?” he as­ked Em­mie.

  “Uh- huh. We crept up­s­ta­irs by our­sel­ves for a few mi­nu­tes. It felt go­od to talk. How abo­ut you? I saw you and Aunt Lilly Ha­le go off to­get­her,” she te­ased. “Did she ma­na­ge to ha­ve her wic­ked way with you?”

  “I fo­ught her off. Told her I’d pro­mi­sed to be lo­yal and fa­it­h­ful to you.” He to­ok one hand from the whe­el to squ­e­eze her sho­ul­der. “Hey, I didn’t know you co­uld sing.” Do-Lord cut off her dis­c­la­imers. “One of Pic­kett’s sis­ters told me you’d ne­ver be­en wil­ling to sing be­fo­re. Why to­night?”

  “Aunt Lilly Ha­le is so thril­led to ha­ve two gre­at­g­ran­d­c­hil­d­ren who are mu­si­cal. I knew she wan­ted them to per­form, but they’re both at aw­k­ward sta­ges. So I sa­id I wo­uld as a gift to the­ir gre­at-gran­d­mot­her and as­ked them to help me. And, of co­ur­se, they wan­ted to-if so­me­one wo­uld ma­ke it le­gi­ti­ma­te.”

  “If so­me­one wo­uld as­su­me le­ader­s­hip.”

  “Ha­ve you ever se­en such gifts? Aren’t they in­c­re­dib­le? Han­nah’s vo­ice hasn’t ma­tu­red to its full re­so­nan­ce yet, but when it do­es…”

  “Is that why you had Han­nah sing the last ver­se so­lo?”

 

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