“Mama’s vanity smells like her perfume.”
He needed no other explanation. Gathering her into his arms, he held her while she wept again, all the racking sobs of an orphaned child masquerading as an adult.
Chapter 43
Today, Grace made pies. She cut cold butter into flour and turned the dough with her fingers, disdaining the use of her food processor like the Food Network star recommended. She flattened and rolled and filled the dishes with dried apples like Annie had taught her. Cinnamon came next and she sprinkled liberally, having read that the spice prevented inflammation and could ward off depression.
The sweetness sent her back. Her father laughing on school mornings as he sprinkled cinnamon sugar thickly over Texas toast. Tennessee sitting at the tiny counter in the caretaker’s house at Cooper Creek, wearing footed pajamas because as a first-time mother, she believed he must dress according to the calendar rather than the weather. A ratty blanket dangled from his lap, as he watched her make breakfast, asking nearly every day for cinnamon toast.
Now her only baby was marrying and leaving her too. She was entitled to the wave of tears that almost splashed her pie.
A knock sounded, and Hank leapt from his bed at the foot of the fireplace, looking like an advertisement for Lands’ End. He shattered that illusion by sliding across the floor. He never could seem to grasp that running across her hardwoods offered him no purchase.
“Hush, boy.” She snagged his collar. “Did you behave like this while I was gone?”
She swung open the door to find Cora Anne, her arms full with a box and a stack of magazines.
“I can assure you he behaved exactly like that.” Her daughter-in-law-to-be kissed her cheek and swept into the room. “What are you baking? It smells amazing.”
“Apple pie.”
Cora Anne had been around long enough to know Grace baked from scratch only when anxious or feeding someone else. Her blue eyes searched Grace’s face, a gentle probe. “I’d love to hear about your visit.”
Except Grace didn’t want to talk about it. “Put this down first.” She hefted the box and set it on the coffee table. “What’s in there?”
“Photographs. Mama said you could probably help me identify some of the people. We’re working on organizing all the old photos at the museum. This batch is from Oristo. And these”—she fanned the magazines—“are ideas for the party and wedding.” Cora Anne’s cheeks glowed. “I’d love you to do my hair, if you don’t mind.”
“Why in the world would I mind?” Grace took the stack, grateful she’d worked her worries into that pie dough and could focus on happier times. “You know your Aunt Carolina’s wedding is how I got my job at the salon, all those years ago. The owner was shorthanded and asked me to help out.”
“Really?” Cora Anne tucked into a corner of the couch and Hank joined her. Laughing, she rubbed his ears. “Don’t worry, boy, soon you’ll have a new playmate.”
“Did they find a puppy?”
“Headed there tomorrow, I believe.”
“That’ll be good …” Grace wanted to be happy for David and Lou, for the seaming together of their cracks that might give them a new future. But her own loneliness clouded the desire. She flipped open one of the style magazines. “What are you thinking?”
“Up for the party because Grandmother Charlotte hinted that’s appropriate, but down for the wedding because Tennessee likes it.”
Grace studied this girl her son loved, a girl who’d been so damaged, so broken, Grace worried he would break his own heart helping her heal.
Charlotte must have felt the same about her.
With the realization, she startled, and the magazine slid to her feet.
“You all right?” Cora Anne scooped it up and pointed to the open pages before Grace could formulate a passable answer. “Here’s one I thought would be good.”
A simple chignon, swept up with tiny white flowers. “Yes. That would be perfect.”
They flipped glossy pages, laughing at impracticalities and sighing over whimsical shots, soft with light and chiffon.
“Tell me about yours and Patrick’s wedding.” An innocent statement, since Cora Anne might not have asked if she’d known.
The oven timer beeped, and Grace welcomed the distraction. She lifted pies and set them gently on the counter, so as not to let the crust fissure and the filling spill out. How did she tell her there’d been no fairy tale wedding? Only a pledge at the Charleston County courthouse and a walk on the pier. A stranger had taken their picture, and she’d worn a borrowed dress.
“I know all about Mama and Daddy’s. Presbyterian Church, reception at the farm. Of course, you would know, Aunt Caro and Uncle John got married at St. Michael’s because his family are members. I bet even Charlotte would approve of a St. Michael’s wedding.”
“No doubt she would. Be right back, sweetheart.” Grace ducked into her bedroom and retrieved the silver framed picture. She passed it over. “We kept things simple.”
Cora Anne caressed the glass, tracing Patrick’s smile with her fingertips. “You both look so happy. Even in their wedding pictures my parents …” She set the picture down. “They looked nervous.”
Relieved at the turn in the conversation, Grace leaned on the counter, letting the pie’s steamy cinnamon scent settle her. She’d had a courthouse and a happy marriage. David and Lou had a church and years of discontent. Patrick had always told her it didn’t matter what a wedding day looked like. What mattered were all the days that came after.
“Your mother and father need to find each other again, that’s all.” She folded a dishcloth, fingers fumbling. “They seem to be working on it.”
Cora Anne shrugged. “Mama’s bringing Liam to the party.”
“Your mama likes things neat and tidy.” She set the cloth aside and twisted her hands. “I’d wager divorce is messy, and repairing a relationship after? That’s like suturing up a wound. Looks awful until the scars heal.” Her scars still pulled tight like scabs.
Cora Anne set the picture aside. “Sounds like something Nan would say.”
“Well, you don’t style a lady’s hair for thirty years and not learn a thing or two.”
Outside a door slammed and Hank jumped again, this time knocking the box of pictures to the floor in his pursuit.
“Hey, babe.” Tennessee pushed Hank out of his way and kissed Cora Anne, lingering a bit longer than was necessary, given they were in his mother’s kitchen.
Grace cleared her throat.
He grinned that hundred-watt smile that got him and his father out of trouble almost every time. “Sorry, Mom. Your pie smells good.” She arched a brow, and he amended with a kiss to her cheek. “I came over to hear about those Ocean Ridge photographs. How come I didn’t know Dad worked that project?”
“I don’t think he cared much for building a golf course, but it paid the bills.”
They gathered the spilled photographs and spread them across Grace’s dining room table amidst the centerpieces of driftwood and shells, fresh flowers and hurricane candles she always kept it set with. A bit ridiculous since, when alone, she ate at the counter or on a TV tray.
“I love how nice you keep things,” Cora Anne said cradling a piece of wood. “Makes a house a home.”
“Learned that from your grandmother as well.” Grace smiled, sifting through the photos. Snapshots taken a lifetime ago.
“She taught you to make her crab cakes, right?” Cora Anne’s question carried wistfulness.
Grace set down the pictures and pressed the girl’s hand. “You know she did.”
“Mama doesn’t like to make them. That’s the only recipe she says she can’t do justice and plus, it takes like ten pounds of crab to feed the boys.”
“I better start teaching them to set their own traps then.” Tennessee brought wedges of pie to the table. Grace smiled at the size of the piece he’d served himself. Probably ought to teach Cora Anne that recipe as well.
“Maybe
we could come over when you make them? I’m not very good at picking the meat.” She wrinkled her nose and Tennessee tweaked it.
“You’d be better if you’d relax more. They can’t pinch when they’re cooked.” He scooped a bite of pie in his mouth, swallowed, and grinned. “Or maybe we could just come over for dinner every week since someone doesn’t have the patience for pie crust either.”
Cora Anne threw her napkin at him, laughing. “You said you weren’t marrying me for my culinary skills.”
“You did learn to fry chicken, so I figure we’ll survive.”
Grace shook her head with their playful banter, relishing the simple sounds of laughter in her kitchen. “You all come over whenever you want. We can make it a standing date. There’s always more than enough.”
Perhaps she wasn’t going to be quite so alone after all.
Chapter 44
Marietta, Georgia, January 1993
The triplets, born right before Christmas, stayed in the NICU together for thirty-one days.
J.D. came home first with the strongest lungs, even though he weighed less than Mac. Mac Truck, the nurses called him because he was the biggest of the three, broad-chested and thick, even as a 34-week preemie. Lou could lay her hand on his chest without her fingers wrapping around like they did on the others.
Mac remained another five days, and when they brought him home, he immediately abandoned the NICU schedule. J.D. had been easy from the get-go. Eat, sleep, change, repeat. The perfect baby for Lou’s charts.
Mac refused to sleep anywhere except right beside his brother, so David finally broke down one of the cribs. By the time they were allowed to bring Cole home, the baby with the weakest lungs and the toughest spirit, Lou hadn’t slept more than a three-hour stretch in two weeks.
Cole, at least, kept his schedule during the day, making the long hours between when David and Cora Anne left for school and returned manageable. The church ladies came by, of course, and Mama stayed the first two weeks they were all three home. Mac settled down so long as they co-slept, but Cole couldn’t abide the dark.
One night, bleary-eyed and strung out, Lou nestled Cole into his crib and switched on a gift that had been dropped off that afternoon. A nightlight beamed stars all over the ceiling. Lou crept out, knowing she only had about an hour before he wailed.
They all slept solidly for the next four.
She jerked awake and rushed from the king-size bed.
The stars danced across the nursery ceiling. The babies stirred, mewing like newborn kittens rather than shrieking like little banshees. The clock’s blue numbers glowed three a.m.
The first time in a month she hadn’t seen every hour all night long.
When the trying for another baby turned into five years of waiting and wondering, Lou told herself it didn’t matter. She’d been content with their life, just as it was. But the hopefulness in David’s eyes—the joy she’d seen when the doctor told them they’d have sons—had been worth the difficult pregnancy and the fearful hospital days. She’d finally given him something he’d always wanted, a family that would grow to be big and boisterous, like the one she’d brought him into.
Surely now he would want to be a part of it all. Would realize she and the children needed more from him than provision.
Cole squealed first, so she scooped him up, his tiny head against her hammering heart. He stopped the moment she tucked him under her chin, and for the shortest time in the middle of another long night, Lou found herself content.
And terrified the feeling wouldn’t last.
Chapter 45
“You’re not saying it right.” Lou’s laughter filled the jeep, and David grinned at her. He had no intention of correcting himself if that’s all it took to hear her laugh like that, belly deep, the way she had the first time he’d hauled in a shrimp net.
“Listen,” she pursed her lips then drawled out, “Ra-vah-nel.” Her breath sighed on the middle syllable as though the word needed to rest under the weight of all the connotation that name carried around here.
He knew how to pronounce the small community where he’d found the golden retriever breeder. He’d heard it said more than once when referencing Charlotte and her blue blood ties. But his North Georgia tongue sometimes tripped over the soft syllables and the word came out wrong. An innocent mistake that had set Lou to teasing.
And he liked her this way.
“Ruh-vahhh-nel,” he intoned, straight-faced. In the jeep’s backseat, crowded knee-to-knee, the boys groaned.
“Dad, you’re going to make us sound like a bunch of hicks.” J.D. leaned forward between the front seats. “I think he’s pretending, Mom.”
“You think?” She wagged her brows at David, almost suggestive, and he risked taking his eyes from the road to wink at her.
She swatted his arm. “You’re a mess.”
“Like father, like sons.”
“As usual, I am outnumbered. Should’ve made Cora Anne come along.”
“The night before her fancy party, I’m sure she has better things to do than pick out a dog with us.”
“Hannah whisked her off, and I think champagne and pedicures were involved.”
“I rest my case.” He navigated into a narrow, pot-holed drive that bore a sign hanging from its mailbox: Certified Golden Retrievers Available.
“Anyone else hear banjos?” Cole asked.
“And you thought we sounded like hicks.” Mac elbowed J.D. The boys scuffled, a daily occurrence.
“Boys.” Lou twisted around. “Behave or we won’t pick out a puppy.”
They spilled from the car as soon as he stopped, and David turned toward her with a grin. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, remember?”
She arched a brow. “I never say things I don’t mean.”
He thought they were still teasing one another, but just to be on the safe side, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I know.”
The boys were already at the pen in the scruffy yard, kneeling down and calling to the puppies, still in that fur-bundle stage where they tumble over themselves walking. Beside them, a man in overalls tipped his straw hat. “Howdy, folks. I’m Earl. Y’all the family wanting a puppy?”
David extended his hand. “We are.”
“Well, I got some good ’uns right here. Their mama’s born three litters and every one of ’em’s survived and thrived. Not a runt among ’em.”
The puppies were a range of color—whipped-butter yellow to reddish gold. There were six in all. After their initial sniffing of the boys’ fingers through the wire, they scurried away and burrowed under their mother to nurse. She lay on her side, her coat the color of rich honey, her eyes tracking every movement.
“She’s got more red in her than the daddy did. Why they’ve got such variety to pick from.” Earl produced a photo from his front pocket of a dog poised on a well-manicured lawn. He had a strong, wide face and the classic coat of a golden retriever.
“He’s beautiful.” Lou took the photo from David and examined it closely. “We had a dog like that growing up.”
“Well, miss, if you’re looking for his spitting image, you’ll like that ’un right there.” Earl pointed to the puppy on the end, whose tail wagged in time with his suckling. “He’s the biggest and has those sturdy legs and bigger head, like his daddy.”
“Can we hold them?” Cole looked ready to climb the fence.
“Oh, yeah. But only four of ’em are for picking from. Got two promised already. Glad y’all could come on out. Three more folks coming by tomorrow. Likely they’ll all be spoken for by the next week.”
Which meant they needed to decide today. David glanced at Lou as Earl loosed the gate. Soon as they stepped inside, the puppies abandoned their mother and swarmed. The boys scooped them up one by one for comparison, getting licked, and in Mac’s case, marked.
“Oh, gross!” He released the red-tinted puppy he held and winced at the stream on his jeans.
“Just means she likes you.�
� Earl pushed a wad of tobacco under his lip.
The puppy he’d pointed out to them had come straight to Lou, who lifted him to her chest and rubbed under his chin. David winced. A man ought not be jealous of a dog.
“I like this one. What do you think, boys?” She handed him over to J.D. They passed the pup around, and he wriggled and squirmed until David returned him to Lou.
“Guess we know who he likes best.”
“Are you just a mama’s boy?” She cooed, letting the pup swipe his tongue across her chin.
David swallowed, his throat thick, seeing her soften and smile without the taint of grief or anger. He’d take home each and every one of those puppies if it meant Lou would become herself again.
“You want to speak for that ’un?” Earl hooked his thumbs in the front of his overalls and grinned wide—despite the chaw in his cheek.
The puppy nosed under Lou’s chin again, settled his head on her shoulder, and went limp as she held him like a baby. “He’s definitely a sweet one.” She turned to David. “What do you think?”
“You going to tell him he has to love us all equally?”
She stroked the pup’s soft coat and shifted her stance until they were nearly hip-to-hip. “I make no promises.”
“Hey, Mom, this one’s cute.” Cole held up the reddest pup of the litter.
“She’s already spoke for, son. That girl’s gonna be a breeder like her mama.”
At Earl’s statement Lou’s brows contracted and anger whisked across her face—disappearing before David could process why. She set her lips in a thin line and turned back to the scruffy man. “Are all your girls spoken for?”
“Yes, ma’am. Only had two. Folks picked ’em first because breeding purebreds ain’t nothing to sneeze at when you wanna make some extra bucks.” He puffed out his chest. “These here pups are $250 a piece, but I can get $300 for the girls.”
Lou squeezed the pup she held and kissed his head before setting him gently on the ground. “Go on over there and see your mama, little one.” The dog obeyed, trotting over to flop beside the mother’s head. Wearily, she licked the pup’s ears as though to remind him who would always be his mother. Lou straightened, arms crossed, and looked to David.
The Bridge Between Page 17
