Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  I turn to him and he’s petting Old Joe, not even looking at me. I turn to Blossom, who shrugs.

  “Yeah, well. Me, too, Dillon,” is all I can think to say.

  “So, he’s okay, then?” Blossom asks. “His heart is good?”

  “His heart is better than mine,” I answer, and I can see that she’s waiting for an explanation. “Phillip is in town.”

  This raises her eyebrows.

  “I inspire him,” I add, repeating what he said when he was here.

  “I get that,” Blossom responds. “You seeing him?”

  “I guess.” I think about the night he was here, our lunch the day after, how he’s hanging around Clayton until after the weekend, after the holiday. It’s been unbelievable really. I’ve not had anybody to talk to about it, which is why I’m so happy that Blossom is here. And then I think about how she’s acting right now, how she acted before on our trip, when he called, when she knew I was texting him.

  “Why don’t you like him?” I ask.

  “I never said I didn’t like him,” she answers, but her affect is off.

  “This the dude from Facebook?” Dillon chimes in.

  “That’s the one,” I say, waiting for him to tell me what Blossom will not. “What does she have against him?”

  He pulls back his hair and rewinds the holder around his ponytail.

  “It’s not that she doesn’t like him,” he says. “She just thinks you can do better.”

  I turn my attention back to Blossom, who responds with a simple shrug.

  chapter fifty-three

  WE slept late, ate lunch on the way to Raleigh; then Blossom and Dillon boarded their trains, one west, the other north. I was sad to see them go, hoping they might stay for the wedding; but I understand about new work schedules for them both and know they need to get on with their lives. I waited until I could no longer see the trains, hearing only their whistles in the distance, before I left.

  Once again I am driving Faramond on the interstate and I have just merged onto Interstate 40 when my phone rings. It’s Blossom.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, wondering if something has happened, if she somehow boarded the wrong train, or left something at my house.

  “I need to tell you the truth,” she says; and this makes me feel a little weird. I didn’t know she had lied.

  “Okay,” I respond. “Do I need to pull off the highway to hear this?”

  She hesitates. “Maybe.”

  I take the first exit, drive to a convenience store, and stop the car. It’s taken me only three minutes to manage this maneuver.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m safely parked and all yours.”

  “He messaged me.”

  “What?” I don’t follow.

  “I don’t like Phillip because he messaged me.”

  I don’t quite know what to say.

  “Dillon doesn’t know, either. I haven’t told anyone. But I need to tell you. You should know.”

  “When did he send you a message?”

  “In West Memphis, right after he talked to you.”

  I’m having some trouble with her confession.

  “You fell asleep and he messaged me. I erased it right after he sent it. I didn’t reply.”

  “So, what was the message?”

  “He had seen a picture of me.”

  “Yeah, I know—he saw all our photo albums. He knows who you are.”

  “It was the one of us at the bar in Nashville.”

  I recall that bar in Nashville. We took a lot of photos that night.

  “He wrote that he thought I was hot and that I had legs like a dancer.”

  I admit that he’s never really said anything like that to me, but this isn’t the worst thing in the world.

  “Well, Blossom, you’re seventeen and you are hot. And you do have great legs.”

  “He shouldn’t have messaged me.”

  It is a little unsettling that Phillip sent my young companion a flirty Facebook message, but I have lots of explanations for his bad behavior.

  “He was just trying to be funny; he does that. He sounds like he’s flirting, but he’s just being friendly.” I think about the waitress at the restaurant where we met for lunch the day before yesterday. He commented on her smile after he gave her his order, but I knew it didn’t mean anything. And she seemed to brush it off.

  “It just seems wrong,” she adds. “He had just talked to you; you were just starting to get to know each other again.”

  Her kind confession and concern for me are touching. “Well, I agree, it was maybe a little inappropriate, but it’s like you say, it was when we were just starting to talk. It was after one conversation. I don’t really think he’d send the same message now. It’s just that he didn’t know you and he had only just spoken with me that one time.”

  “I’m just worried about how he’ll treat you,” she says. In the background, I can hear an announcement being made on her train. Tickets are to be out where the conductor can see them.

  “He treats me really well,” I tell her. “He is polite, opens doors for me, lets me enter a room first. He turns his phone off when we’re together; and he’s very gracious.” I pause, trying to think of other examples. “He’s staying in town all this week, so that he can be here for the wedding. How sweet is that?”

  “I thought you said he was planning to be there anyway since it’s the Fourth.”

  Well, I guess that’s true. “Yeah, but he came early, and that was to see me. He wasn’t supposed to come until Friday or Saturday.”

  She doesn’t respond; I hear her talking to someone else. She must be handing over her ticket. Then I hear her say, “Amarillo,” and then I hear a man’s voice explaining to her when she will need to change trains.

  “I even told him about Dad and Dixie. We went over there together a couple of days ago. He said the same thing you and Dillon said, that if they love each other, the age difference shouldn’t matter.”

  “Well, that’s nice of him.”

  “And you should have seen him with Dixie’s boys. He wrestled with them and ran around the backyard, playing ball with them, while we were inside discussing wedding plans. It was sweet.”

  I consider telling her about our conversation on the way home that evening. How Phillip explained that he still hopes to have a family, that he wants three or four children, and how I replied that, when I was younger, I wanted two girls and two boys.

  I think about telling Blossom that he then reached over and took my hand, and when we got to the stoplight a few seconds later, he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I think about telling her these things, but decide against it.

  “He’s a good man, Blossom,” I continue. “And he’s still really broken up about his marriage. He feels terrible about being divorced, embarrassed, really, since he always believed that a couple stays married forever, that those vows are meant to be taken very seriously.”

  “Well, that’s good, I guess,” she responds.

  “And he really likes me, Blossom. He thinks I’m funny.”

  “You are funny.”

  “That’s what he says. And he thinks I’m a good listener, and he really cares about me taking over the paper, thinks I need to get better insurance for myself. He’s researched all kinds of things about the house, like whether or not it might be in a floodplain; he’s really done a lot for me since he’s been home these last few days.”

  “Okay,” she responds.

  “And he makes me happy. My stomach still does those baby flips when I see that he’s calling or when I find him at my door.” I pause because I realize I haven’t said these things out loud to anyone. “I’m really happy being around him.”

  “I know,” she says softly. “I just thought you should hear what he wrote to me. I thought I should tell you the tru
th.”

  “And it means so much that you did. Thank you for that. I knew something was bothering you and now I know it’s nothing. It was just a silly Facebook post. We hadn’t even gone out then; and shoot, he was probably drunk anyway and doesn’t even remember sending it.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Okay,” I say, glad to have had this conversation, glad that it’s out there, glad that it’s over. “You feel better?”

  “I feel better,” she replies.

  “All right, well, call me when you get home.”

  “All right.”

  “And thanks for bringing me Faramond.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re a good friend, Blossom Winters.”

  “So are you, Alissa Kate Wells.”

  And I hear the train whistle just as she turns off her phone.

  chapter fifty-four

  FIRST there was the wedding and now there is the party. It is part retirement for Oscar Wells, part marriage celebration for Oscar and Dixie, and part congratulations to me for becoming the new publisher and editor in chief of the Clayton Times and News. All the employees of the paper are here, as well as everyone who has ever bought an ad, been interviewed, won public office, or been a source for a story.

  It is, therefore, most of the town of Clayton who has shown up this evening at the community center. We’ve sprung for a catered meal from the White Swan, beer and wine from the Piggly Wiggly, champagne from the Costco in Raleigh, and a four-layer chocolate cake by Dolly Emerson, the owner of the ABC Cakeplace. The entertainment comes from the Lone Night Strings, a local bluegrass band that isn’t charging us because the Times and News has always covered its events at no cost, and also because Ben sometimes plays bass when Lucas Browne, the regular bassist, is called out of town for his weekend duty in the Air National Guard.

  It is a hot night in early July; but there are large fans blowing from the corners of the building and all of the windows and doors are propped open. I am sitting on the steps, watching the stars come out, thinking about the ceremony, how beautiful Dixie looked, how my dad cried, the youngest boy standing next to him, watching as his mother walked toward them arm in arm with her oldest son.

  The service was perfect, even with Kimmie Johnson, James William’s mother, missing her cue in “Ave Maria” and singing three bars behind the organist. Frankie Lowder, the musician, finally stopped and let her catch up and she finished on just the right note. Sandra and I stood with our father, and Dixie’s sister and niece were the attendants for the bride.

  Dixie chose red, white, and blue as her colors, fitting since it’s the Fourth of July, and it was very easy to accommodate for such a large event in such a short period of time. We were fortunate that the paper came out four days before the celebration, so we could use the public forum as our community-wide invitation. And since the park had already been reserved for holiday festivities, we just bumped things up a couple of hours, offering a free dinner and giving everyone a bit more time for dancing and gathering before the fireworks. The mayor and city planner thought it was an excellent idea for such an important occasion.

  The wedding itself took place at the First Presbyterian Church because it was within walking distance of the park and because we’re giving them half a split page at no charge to advertise for their Vacation Bible School, which they scheduled for August. The pastor, a woman with a flair for the dramatic, spoke of Daddy’s cardiac event as the wake-up call we should all heed as an opportunity to open our hearts and choose love over fear. Even Sandra seemed moved by the message. I saw her wipe away a tear just after Dixie placed the ring on our father’s finger.

  She’s inside talking to the mayor, I suppose, trying to get in as many pictures as she can, and J.T. is working the crowd as well, trolling for potential clients, I imagine. Neither my sister nor her husband has yet to figure out that Dixie doesn’t really have any money, and I’m sure one day I’ll have to pay for my lie. For now, however, all I can say is that it was certainly a lie well worth whatever consequences it brings.

  “You look a million miles away.” It’s Daddy, and he’s sat down right beside me.

  I’m surprised to see him. “Aren’t you supposed to be cutting the cake or having a first dance or something important like that?”

  “Dixie’s changing Tyler’s diapers so I have a few minutes to spare to be with my daughter.”

  “My diapers are fine,” I say, leaning over and bumping him with my shoulder. I immediately think about his recent surgery and turn to him. “Oh, jeez, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  He shakes his head. “It’s my chest that was sliced in two, not my shoulders.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Thank you for today,” he tells me.

  “I didn’t do anything. Dixie and her sister did all this.” I point behind me at the decorations and the buffet line.

  “I don’t mean the barbecue,” he responds. “I mean being here, being supportive, understanding how I feel.”

  “You’re right to love her, Daddy. You’ve waited a long time. You deserve a little happiness.”

  “I still don’t know how you talked Sandra into showing up; I owe you for that, too. She’s been so nice to Dixie; it’s uncanny.”

  “Yeah, well—” I mull it over for a second and decide not to say anything more.

  “So, you and Phillip Blake?” He’s watching me for my reaction.

  “Maybe,” I answer, turning behind me to try to find Phillip in the crowd. He looks very handsome tonight: blue blazer, white pants. I am still smitten. I don’t see him, so I turn back around.

  “You always had a thing for him, didn’t you?”

  I admit I’m surprised that my dad knows this.

  “What, you think I wasn’t paying attention?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” I answer.

  “Well, you look happy and I’m glad about that.”

  “Thank you. Me, too.”

  “Look, I don’t want you to think I’m going to abandon you.” He takes my hand. “I’ll write features for you if you need them. I can cover some of the local happenings, do the op-eds or any editing you need. I’m happy to help out.”

  “Thanks, Dad. We’ll be okay,” I tell him. “You should enjoy your time with Dixie and her boys. Spend your days with her, write your mystery. The Clayton Times and News will be just fine.”

  “I know it will.”

  “We need the groom.” An announcement is made from the microphone in the main room. It sounds like Ben’s voice.

  “Oscar, it’s too late to hide from her now!”

  “I guess that’s your cue,” I say, leaning into him once again.

  He puts his arm around me. “You think people will laugh at me? An old man trying to dance with such a young bride?”

  I feel so close to him, so proud of him. “Not if they see what I see.”

  I pause for just a second.

  “I see a man whose heart is opened. A man who loves a woman and wants to make her happy. Nobody will laugh at that. Not if they really see.”

  I feel him nod.

  “And if they do laugh, I’ll make up a terrible story about them and run it in next week’s edition.”

  He kisses me on the top of my head. “That’s my girl. Power in the pen, right?”

  “Power in the pen,” I repeat. And he stands up so that he can take his first dance with Dixie.

  chapter fifty-five

  “HAVE you seen Phillip?” The fireworks are about to start and I want to watch them with my date for this combination wedding and Fourth of July celebration. I wonder when we get married if I will speak of this as our fifth date or both the fifth and sixth.

  Ben looks around the room. “I haven’t seen him in a while,” he answers. “I was filling in while Lucas took a break. Did y
ou hear us do the Béla Fleck song?”

  “I don’t think I did, Ben.”

  “‘The Sinister Minister,’” he goes on. “It won a Grammy in 1997. We did it for the preacher. She was dancing. You didn’t see it?”

  I shake my head. “I think I was outside, Ben. Where did you see Phillip last?”

  “Well, you missed it. It was a great moment.”

  “I am sorry. Phillip?” I ask again.

  “Oh, right. He was here when they cut the cake.”

  “Well, I know that, Ben,” I reply. “I was standing right beside him then.”

  “Oh, yeah, you were.”

  How Ben is ever able to get his facts together enough to write a story, I do not know.

  “By the way, you look nice, Al,” he says, causing me to shake aside my criticisms and doubts.

  Ben is a friend. He always has been. He cares about Dad, about Dixie, about the paper, about me. He is always there when you need him. He’s solid; I don’t know how much more you really want from an employee.

  “Are you going to fire me for sexual harassment if I tell you that dress fits you just right?”

  “No, Ben, I won’t.”

  “How about if I tell you exactly where the fit is best?”

  “That would probably change things,” I say, walking away, saving him from postwedding embarrassment.

  It’s clear to me now that we should have limited the amount of alcohol we served. I can see that Ben is not the only one who will need a ride home tonight. James William is hitting on Dixie’s sister even while she’s nursing her baby, and the mayor is trying to get those still in the building to join him in a verse of “God Bless America,” even though he’s singing the national anthem, which is confusing everyone. This is some night, for sure.

  I am happy about my dress, however. It’s the yellow one that Blossom bought me in Arkansas. It’s perfect for the occasion, and I have to admit I feel pretty wearing it. Even Phillip gave a wolf whistle when he saw me, which made me blush and question whether or not it might be appropriate attire for the new publisher of the Clayton Times and News. After Ben’s remark, I am second-guessing my decision to wear it after all.