by T. I. Lowe
With a wide grin, Opal waved. “Josie and Sophia, I need y’all to come here.”
Once they joined her, Lincoln sidled up next to them, towering over the woman. His long brown hair was pulled back and his beard neatly trimmed. He was also in his church attire, a white linen shirt and tan slacks.
Lincoln winked at Opal and then scanned the group. “Carter? August? Will you guys come here for a sec, too?”
As they gathered around the couple, Opal raised her left hand and smoothed it down the side of Lincoln’s smiling face. Josie’s eyes widened when catching the glint from a delicate ring on Opal’s finger. From the gasp beside her, Sophia noticed it too.
Sophia stepped forward, hands on her hips, sucking her teeth. “I knew this wasn’t just a barbecue! It’s an engagement party!”
Opal giggled. “We are engaged, yes, but this is actually a wedding ceremony.”
“You’re getting married? Right now?” The couple wore wide grins as they both nodded, which Sophia returned with an exaggerated scoff. “Oh, my gracious! Opal Gilbert, you can’t just pop something like this on us!” Her arms were waving around and her foot just a-stomping as she kept reprimanding them as if the grown pair were naughty children.
Carter Bradford let out a guffaw. “Lincoln Cole said he’d never walk down an aisle. Guess the punk figured getting married in a backyard lets him keep his word.”
Before Josie could contain it, joy bubbled out of her in a high squeal as she grabbed one of Opal’s arms and one of Sophia’s and started bouncing up and down. “Our Opal is getting married!” She giggled as tears spilled down her cheeks. Sophia got over her attitude quickly and joined in. They hugged and laughed and wiped the tears away until Lincoln cleared his throat.
“I’d like to marry my woman before the barbecue gets cold.”
“You two stand right there.” Opal directed Josie and Sophia to the left of the trellis before disappearing among the crowd.
Moments later, their pastor positioned himself underneath the trellis and asked the guests if they minded gathering a little closer.
As everyone settled into place, Josie snuck a peek at August, still coming to terms with him being there in the flesh and not in one of her daydreams. He was whispering something to Lincoln, so Josie took the opportunity to give him a thorough once-over. In dark jeans and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, she thought he looked just as handsome as the groom.
A violin began to softly play, but before Josie could look away, August’s eyes connected to hers. The side of his lips quirked as his gaze softened. Not in tease, but perhaps liking the idea of her watching him. Again, the reaction to having his attention on her had the heat crawling up her neck and flooding her face, a war of nerves ricocheting through her body. Wiping her palms down the side of her dress, Josie somehow managed to snap out of the daze and move her focus to find Opal’s dad leading her through the parted guests.
As the bride and groom exchanged vows, Josie kept them in her periphery, but like magnets, her eyes collided with August’s and remained fastened there throughout the ceremony. It wasn’t until the pastor told the groom to kiss his bride that August slowly blinked and moved his attention to them to take in the moment, causing her to do the same.
Lincoln leaned down and slowly placed his lips to Opal’s while cupping the back of her head. He was a giant of a man, but he was always so gentle with Opal. What seemed to be a quick peck continued for a lengthy amount of time, but it wasn’t raucous or inappropriate. The man was loving on his new wife with such reverence, and when Josie noticed Opal wiping away a tear from Lincoln’s cheek, her own eyes flooded with tears.
It was the simplest yet most profound wedding Josie had ever attended. No frills. No fuss. Just two souls in love and wanting to dedicate themselves to each other before God and their loved ones.
When Lincoln placed his forehead against Opal’s, the pastor asked, “Are you done, Lincoln?”
A light chuckle could be heard from the guests but hushed when Lincoln began shaking his head.
“No, sir. Not even close,” Lincoln replied in a raspy voice before kissing his bride once again. The chuckles transformed into sniffling and soft murmurs of celebration.
Eventually the newlyweds turned to face their guests and allowed the pastor to announce them. Once the intimate bubble dissipated and turned to grins and fist pumps, eating and celebrating followed well into the afternoon.
Josie managed to keep a comfortable distance between her and August, but he seemed to be closing the space by the time the wedding cake was served. She quickly gathered a slice of cake and covered it with a napkin before maneuvering around the guests with hopes of slinking away undetected. Making it as far as the shadowy side of the mansion, Josie thought she’d succeeded.
“Leaving so soon?” The distinct boom of his voice resonated close behind her, sending a shiver to jolt down her spine, and almost caused her to drop the plate. August owned one of those rich voices with a depth one could feel when spoken to, homegrown Southern with the edges of his words more defined to keep the twang from becoming too prominent. No other voice had ever stopped Josie in her tracks as this man’s. It was both thrilling and terrifying.
Almost too many moments passed with Josie savoring his voice and acknowledging how deeply she’d missed simply listening to him speak. Taking a shaky breath, she ordered herself to turn to face him and was instantly caught in his silvery-blue gaze once again. “I’m supposed to be spending the afternoon with Miss Dalma. I . . . uh . . . I’m bringing her cake . . .” Clearing her throat, Josie held the plate a little higher before lowering it. “You remember her?”
August’s lips tipped upward. “Miss Dalma is unforgettable.”
His answer had Josie mirroring his smile. “She sure is. Well . . . she’s expecting me . . . so I better go.”
August took a deep breath and slowly blew it out, seeming as affected as Josie felt. He reached out and placed his palm on her shoulder, giving it a gentle press before dropping his hand. “It was good seeing you again, Jo.”
“You too.” Maybe her emotions were running amok because of the wedding, but Josie had the crazy urge to sling her arms around his neck and declare how much she missed him. She took her own deep breath and turned tail to get away from the allure of August Bradford before she made a fool of herself.
4
August chipped away at the flecks of paint clinging to his nails as he studied the drying canvas. He was optimistic that Josie would show up at the studio Friday night and instantly understand what he was trying to express to her through the paintings. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried capturing her attention in the same exact manner.
Back in high school, August spent as much time in the art studio at the school as possible, oftentimes well past the normal school hours. Josie sneaking into the studio after school to check out his paintings wasn’t a secret to him, but she was so reverent about it that he’d let her get away with it.
During their junior year, he put great care into painting her a message, and the teenage girl with her keen eye for art caught it instantly. He would never forget that day her face lit up as soon as she got it, before looking around as if she’d expected him to appear.
They only exchanged knowing looks that day, yet it nagged him over the years if he should have initiated a conversation about the painting. August wondered if doing so would have instigated a pivotal change in their friendship. Good thing he didn’t live in the what-ifs.
Smiling at the memory, August focused on adding another subtle hint to the picture before him. The rhythmic strokes of his paintbrush over the coarse canvas were cathartic and began pulling him into the creative spell that wasn’t ever easily broken once he was in its snare. Hours, even days, could pass without his awareness, but that wasn’t the case today. His mind kept flickering back to that high school art room with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty admiring his artwork while he secretly admired her.
>
The canvas before him faded as he recalled the private painting in crisp detail, even though he’d not actually laid eyes on it in years. It was for Josie. So after she’d left that day, August took the picture home and hid it away. If she found it odd that it disappeared, never to be presented to the class, she never let on about it. The painting was still in his possession, and when the time was right, he hoped to give it to her as a thank-you for truly understanding him and his art way back when most overlooked him. He supposed people had a right to be confused by him—a good bit older than his classmates with an outward appearance beyond different from most of the fresh-faced beach kids.
After the Bradfords adopted him and Tucker, August worked diligently on being the perfect son. He never indulged in lounging in his room while listening to music or anything else normal boys did. If a dish needed washing or the lawn mowed or a floor mopped, they never had to ask. Nan finally sat him down one day and all but told him to knock it off.
“You’re thirteen, August,” Nan said that day as they sat on the sprawling deck of the beach house. She kept her brown eyes on him as the breeze danced through her short dark-blonde hair.
“Yes, ma’am,” August agreed, itching to draw Nan in that moment to give to Derek as a thank-you.
“Then why in the world are you acting like an old maid? Seriously, I’m disappointed that I never have to tell you to pick up your socks or not to drink out of the milk carton.”
August had promised Tucker he would find them a good family—and promised not to screw it up for them—so Nan had totally stumped him that day. Worried that he’d somehow managed to screw it up, he all-out begged, “I’m sorry. I . . . I can do better. Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it exactly like that. Please don’t kick us out!” He was about to go to his knees and beg even more when Nan quickly wrapped him in a hug.
“You and Tucker are stuck with us, so there’s no sense in even worrying about that. And all I want you to do is be August. Not a robot maid. Listen to your music too loud. Be lazy every now and then, and go surfing with your uncle Carter.” Nan presented him with a gift with those words that had a profound effect on August’s outlook. She gave him permission to just be himself. No pretenses. No pretending.
“I notice you drawing on every scrap piece of paper you can find, so I thought you’d like this.” She handed over a bag brimming with thick sketch pads and several packs of charcoal drawing pencils, yet another gift that would give him the tools needed to become what he was meant to be.
And just like that, August found himself.
Midteens, he rebelled a bit and took to dying his hair in wild colors. A few tattoos and piercings followed and he liked how it changed him, like a blank canvas coming to life. He no longer resembled that scared kid who felt lost after losing his parents. That black-haired kid whose stomach ached from hunger and fright on those nights he held little Tucker, praying God would get them out of the living arrangement with their grandpa Ted.
His early adolescent years had been horrible, but then life made a one-eighty and became something more than he’d ever imagined. Eyes fastened on the art project before him, August hoped he’d see another dream come to be with a woman he’d longed to have in his life. He could only hope that delicate bird was finally ready to fly out of the open cage.
A slow chuckle worked past his lips as he picked up the canvas and walked it to an empty spot by the wall. “Josie will get it. No worries,” August mumbled to himself as he worked on cleaning his brushes so he could get started on the next message.
“Talking to yourself now? Is that a European thing?” Tucker said as he walked into the studio with the last of the supplies August had asked him to retrieve.
August ignored the jab and set to squirting bold paints on a clean pallet. “What sessions have you signed up to take at the camp?”
“I’m taking a few music classes with Uncle Carter and was thinking about maybe checking out a drama class.” Tucker perched on a stool beside August’s easel.
“Not even one of my art sessions?” August glanced over with an eyebrow drawn up.
“Nah, man. You know I can’t even draw a straight line. God gave you all that skill.”
August chuckled while shaking his head. “You just don’t want to give me an excuse to tell you what to do.”
“Whatever.” Tucker rolled his eyes. “So . . . you gonna tell me what’s up with these half-done paintings?” He pointed over to the canvas drying by the wall.
“You know all about fishing, right?”
Tucker rolled his eyes. “You know I do.”
The guys didn’t have much growing up, but they treasured their cane fishing poles and had a perceptive knack for knowing when to gather bait. The best time to collect worms was right after a morning rainstorm, and early evenings were the time to scoop up crickets along the edges of overgrown fields.
August tipped his chin toward the incomplete painting. “That’s bait. I’m about to go fishing.”
“Sweet.” Tucker bumped fists with August as the brothers grinned broadly at each other.
August’s heart picked up speed as he focused on the challenge ahead of him.
“I’m out, dude, so you can get to it.” Tucker stood and stretched his long, lanky body while releasing a grunt.
“Thanks for helping me out.” August ticked his chin in Tucker’s direction but kept his eyes on the canvas.
“No worries,” he heard Tucker say before the door closed.
Focusing completely on preparing his bait, August cranked the music up on his iPod dock and got to it as his little brother had instructed.
He blinked—that’s what it felt like anyway—and realized a day and night had passed without letting him know it. Rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye, August took note of his dwindling supplies.
He unearthed his wallet and keys from underneath a pile of used paint rags and shoved them into his pocket. The paint-stained shirt caught his sight, so he yanked it off. After turning the shirt inside out and using it as a rag for his face and hands, he went on a hunt for a clean one.
August made it to the quaint craft store in town after refueling on fresh donuts and a tall coffee from the local bakery. The much-needed sugar and caffeine were already zinging through his system as he loaded the handbasket with various supplies, making do with what was available until his order came in. He rounded the corner on a hunt for brush cleaner and came to a halt at the endearing sight before him. There stood little Miss Dalma in her Sunday best. The pale-pink jacket and skirt suit were probably brand-new, but the camouflage rain boots on her feet were caked with mud and far from it. Her hair was pinned haphazardly with a pillbox hat perched among it.
“Good morning, Miss Dalma. Is there a special occasion at church today or something?” He couldn’t think of anything that would be going on midweek.
“Nah, honey. I’m just going fishing. Or that’s the plan, but I can’t find the bait section. Mr. Growler must have moved it again . . . ,” Miss Dalma said absently as she rummaged through a bin filled with decorative buttons. “Darnedest thing . . .”
August had a feeling it would do no good to point out the fact that she was in the wrong store, so he settled on asking, “How’d you manage getting here?”
“Umm . . .” She huffed and dumped a handful of buttons into her basket. Several fell to the floor, making a pinging racket before disappearing underneath the display shelf. “I rode my bicycle.”
August scratched the scruff on his chin and calculated her house to be at least three miles down the road since it was one avenue past his family’s restaurant. He gave her another once-over and was relieved to find no signs of a fall. “Isn’t it a little difficult to ride a bike in a skirt?”
“Don’t be silly, honey.” Dalma began hiking up her skirt with her free hand before August could stop her, revealing a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts underneath like it was perfectly normal.
He bit the inside of his
cheek to repress a chuckle. Never had he met such a quirky character in all his life. Some said it was because she was getting up there in age, but he spent a good bit of time with her when he was in high school and couldn’t recall a time where she ever fit in the “normal” box. “Tell ya what, Miss Dalma. How about you let me go fishing with you and I’ll gather us some bait.”
Dalma grinned wide with excitement, showing off nothing but pink gums. “Would you?” When he nodded, she continued, “Then you have yourself a deal, honey.” She sat the loaded basket on the floor and started to the front of the store. “I’ll meet you at my house.”
August rushed after her. “It’ll be faster if you let me give you a lift in my truck.”
She halted so quickly that the rubber soles of her rain boots squeaked against the tile floor and he nearly plowed her over. “I suppose you’re right.”
The impromptu fishing trip would eat up most of his day, but spending time with the sweetest yet oddest little lady he’d ever met would be well worth it. He offered her his elbow, she gladly took it, and they headed out.
5
After winding around the avenues of Sunset Cove after work, Josie pulled the truck into Dalma’s driveway and parked underneath the stilted beach house.
Movement from the hammock strung from the rafters caught her eye as she turned the engine off. A bare foot dangled over the edge and tapped at the air. It wasn’t until she opened the driver’s door that she realized the foot was keeping time to the beats of the Beach Boys’ song “Good Vibrations” that was playing from an old cassette player. Taking a deep inhale of the pungent air kicking off the inlet behind the house, Josie walked over and peered down at a grinning Dalma.
