Sister's Choice (27 page)

She wanted to hold this moment in her memory, along with the many other good memories from the years spent here. Ben coming in from a day in the orchard, cheeks nipped by frost or flushed with heat. Family meals at this table, her sons and daughter laughing or arguing, but always eating as if she had forgotten to feed them for months. The first visits of new grandchildren, who banged drum solos on the old wooden high-chair tray as they waited for their mothers or fathers to feed them.

Jamie put a large saucepan on the stove to heat and poured in a bit of olive oil; then she pulled the cutting board from its perch behind the dish rack and began to chop an onion.

“I was surprised Helen Henry didn’t come up here with Cissy to get Reese,” Grace said. “I thought she might want to spy on me.”

“What a thing to say.”

“Yes, but doesn’t it sound possible?”

“As a matter of fact, Cissy told me something about Helen.” Jamie pursed her lips in concentration. “I’m trying to think. There were a million things going on…” She winced and looked up. “Oh, I remember. It’s sad. This is the weekend of that Houston quilt festival—”

“Well, of course it is. I can’t believe I forgot that’s where she’d be. What’s wrong, didn’t her quilt win a ribbon?”

“No, I don’t think it did, but it’s even worse than that. She’s sick. Apparently she caught an awful cold, and they were afraid it was heading toward pneumonia. So her doctor refused to let her go.”

“How terrible.” Grace could just imagine what this misfortune had meant to Helen. Most of the woman’s long life had been lived in Toms Brook, making do for her daughter, making do alone without a husband, making do without the rest of her family, who had been casualties, in one way or another, of the Second World War. That she had made it through those difficult years and still, somehow, continued to turn out beautiful quilts, one after another, was a testament to the woman.

Even if Grace didn’t like her.

Jamie plopped the chopped onions into the pan, where they began to sizzle as she started on the garlic. “Cissy said Helen won’t even talk about it, that she says it never made sense to go all the way to Texas anyway. But I’m sure it was a real blow.”

“Is she feeling any better?”

“Cissy said she was, although she’s still stuck at home for a while. Nobody wants to take chances with her health. Cissy feels really bad, because she thinks Helen picked up the cold from Reese. Reese got over it right away, but Helen didn’t, of course.”

Grace suppressed a smile. She’d said “of course” because to someone as young as Jamie, at their age, Helen and Grace were just a few steps ahead of the Grim Reaper.

Jamie continued, unaware. “I wonder if we should take her something. I sent some cookies home with Cissy, but I could make enough pasta sauce for Helen and Cissy’s family, too. Maybe I’ll just double up here and take it by tomorrow.”

Grace looked out the window and thought about the times she had sat right here thinking about her life. Not the good times she had imagined earlier, but the ones that hadn’t been good at all, when she had been angry and filled with regret for choices foisted on her.

“I have bread in the freezer,” she told Jamie, still looking out the window. “And we have plenty of things for a salad. If you make the sauce, I’ll have Cash drive me down there tonight to deliver it all. He won’t mind.”

“
You’ll
take it? Tonight?”

“Of course I’ll tell her
you
made the sauce, dear.”

“You know that’s not what I’m referring to.”

This time Grace did smile. “Maybe it’s time Helen and I had a heart-to-heart. When better? She probably doesn’t feel well enough to toss me out of her house. I might not have this kind of opportunity again.”

“You really think a heart-to-heart is a good idea?”

“The truth is always a good idea, isn’t it?”

“No way.”

“This time, I think it might be. Sometimes, when you’re feeling that low, the only people who can really understand you are the ones who remember you when you were a girl. The ones who know why you’re the way you are and are willing to let you be that way.”

“Are you willing? To let her be the way she is? Because I like her just fine, but she’s awfully hard on you.”

“We’ll hope that part changes.” Grace got to her feet. “I’ll just defrost that bread. Shall I make a big salad to share with them?”

“I’d like to be a fly on the wall when you have that heart-to-heart.”

Grace smiled and kissed Jamie’s cheek. “I’ll be sure to carry a flyswatter, then, dear. This will be one conversation no one else should hear.”

“T
hat’s it, the farmhouse on the right. Slow down, before I’m sorry I ate Jamie’s fine, fine supper.”

Cash stepped on the brakes, but not so quickly that Grace had to brace herself to keep from flying through the windshield. Like most of the men raised in the area, Cash drove faster than green grass through a goose, but he was a good driver, and a safe one.

“You’re sure you want to go through with this?” he asked.

“I’m absolutely sure.”

“Then I’m going down to the Taylors’ place to see how things are progressing on the drainage system, so I’ll be close by. I’ve got my cell phone. Worse comes to worst, you can leave and start walking in that direction. I’ll pick you up fast as I can.”

“Oh, I doubt she’ll come after me with her shotgun. Once she kicks me out of her house, she’ll probably let me wait on the porch. She’s at least that polite.”

“I don’t know why you’re putting yourself through this. People like that don’t deserve a neighbor’s charity.”

“Helen Henry has her version of something that happened a long time ago. It’s tinder that’s kept the fire burning all these years. I’m fixing to put it out tonight.”

“Fixing? You’re sounding like a country woman again, Granny Grace.”

“Started out as one, if you recall. I suppose I’ll end up that way, too.”

Cash patted her knee. “Not too soon, okay? You’re the glue that holds our clan together.”

“That job will be yours once I’m gone. Your mother would never insist that everybody get together for holidays or vacations. There has to be time to reminisce, to make new memories. We’ll need a firm hand in charge.”

“You overestimate my abilities.”

“At least you didn’t say interest.”

He pulled into a narrow drive that ran to the left of the house and stopped the pickup. “You run in and do whatever it is you think you need to. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

She patted his knee again; then she got out and opened the rear door to retrieve the basket she and Jamie had packed. “I’ll see you in a bit, dear. You don’t have to wait and see if I get in. I know she’s got to be home.”

“I’d tell you to take your time, only I’d like you back in one piece.”

He laughed as she slammed the door shut and stepped away from the pickup. Then he saluted her, and with one arm slung lazily over the passenger seat, he backed out so fast that in what seemed like only a moment, the pickup was gone.

A light shone on the front porch, almost as if Helen was expecting company or anxious to chase away the deepening twilight. The two maples flanking the front door had been stripped by autumn’s onset, but as Grace walked toward the steps, not a single leaf crunched under her feet. Closer now, she could see that the shrubs were neatly trimmed and chrysanthemums dotted the front beds. The house looked well cared for and newly painted.

It hadn’t always been so. Grace remembered trips down Fitch Crossing years ago when she had noted that the house needed some of everything: paint, landscaping, a handyman’s prowess. At those times she’d always thought about Tom Stoneburner, Helen’s brother, and how ashamed he would have been at the aura of disrepair. Had he or their elder brother, Obed, lived, the house would have gone to them, as houses usually did in this part of the country. Both brothers had been hard workers, although Obed had been more inclined to kick up his heels. But before he was killed in the war, Obed had married and settled down, too.

Either brother would have kept the old place in pristine condition. Helen would have, as well, had she possessed any resources besides her two work-roughened hands. As it was, the fact that she had managed to hold on to it at all was something of a miracle. Especially when she had refused all offers of help from old friends or neighbors.

The war had changed everything for so many. Grace was glad that now, after all those difficult years, Helen was finally accepting the help she needed. Old age had compensations.

She trudged up the steps, aware of the weight of the wicker basket. Years ago she wouldn’t even have noticed the way it dragged her whole body lower and lower until she felt as if she were sinking by inches with each step. Helen wasn’t the only one growing older.

The porch looked like a pleasant place to spend a summer afternoon: cushions on comfortable rockers, a fern still thriving on an end table, pumpkins piled beside the door. A fat tabby jumped off the railing as she approached and streaked toward the back of the house, where Grace could hear the clucking of chickens. She gratefully set the basket at her feet, opened the screen door and knocked on the one beyond.

Lights burned in the living room, just visible through sheer curtains. She thought she heard the murmur of a television set, although the door was heavy enough that she couldn’t be sure. She waited, and just as she was about to knock again, the door opened slowly.

She had expected Cissy, or even Helen’s daughter. But Helen herself stood across the threshold, and as Grace watched, her eyes narrowed.

“Come to gloat?” Helen demanded.

“Only
you
would think such a thing.”

Helen chewed the inside of her lip; then she shrugged and stepped aside to let Grace in. “I thought maybe you was Nancy. She’s on her way to spend the rest of the weekend.”

Grace had forgotten Helen’s daughter’s name, but now she remembered the face that went with it. A pretty blond girl who had in no way resembled her mother, Nancy had been flighty, fragile, nothing like the down-to-earth woman who was ushering Grace into her house. Grace hoped the two women had eventually come to terms with their differences, the way she and Sandra had.

More or less.

“I haven’t seen Nancy since she was a girl,” Grace said. “How is she?”

“Happy.”

“And you have grandchildren?”

“Just one.” Helen paused, then added grudgingly, “And a great-grandson.”

“That’s wonderful. I bet you enjoy him.”

“Why’d you come?”

“Because I heard you were sick.” Grace lifted the basket in explanation. “Jamie and I thought you might like some of the pasta she made for our supper this evening. There’s salad and homemade bread, and some of our best apples. If you’ve eaten already, you can save this for tomorrow. Jamie is a delightful cook.”

“I’m trying to figure out why you’re doing this.”

“Helen, do you ever accept anything at face value?”

“Not often, I don’t.”

“Well, that’s understandable, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been through some hard times. It makes one wary.”

“I managed just fine.”

Grace set the basket down again. “You did, but you’re saying it was easy? It didn’t change you?”

“Everybody changes, with an exception or two.” She raised an eyebrow. “Some people don’t change because they can’t. That’s their basic nature.”

“I’ll assume you mean me.”

“You always did what you wanted, no matter what happened because of it.”

Grace thought how far from the truth that was. In the end, despite her “basic nature,” duty had ruled her life. And luckily she wasn’t one bit sorry it had.

“Where would you like me to put your dinner?” she asked.

Helen looked as if she wanted to tell Grace exactly where to put it, and not in the kitchen. But at last she turned and started through the living room. Grace hefted the basket and followed her inside.

“Oh, will you look at this?” Grace stopped before she had gone far. Just ahead of her, draped in a large round hoop, was what looked to be a queen-size quilt. “Why, Helen, it’s spectacular.”

“Nothing much.”

Grace moved closer to examine it, setting the basket down as she did. “It’s perfectly lovely.” She bent so that she could see the tiny little stitches. “Whig Rose?”

“No. Rose of Sharon. See the way the stems bend? Some folks claim that’s the difference, but a quilt’s a quilt by any name, isn’t it?”

The quilt was gorgeous. Grace counted five blocks set on point so they looked like diamonds, each one with a red flower in the center, and curving stems radiating outward. Each stem was adorned with either flowers or buds, and sometimes both. The border was particularly lovely, a sinuous vine that went all the way around the quilt. It, too, was adorned with small red buds.

“This is the kind of quilt you wanted the bee to make for our Christmas quilt, isn’t it?” Grace asked, lifting a corner to see it better.

“Something like this. Only once you shot me down good, I decided I’d quilt this one for myself. I made the top some time ago, and made it big enough for a bed ’cause that’s where quilts ought to go, in my opinion. When I took sick, I brought it down here to work on in that hoop.”

“I didn’t shoot you down, dear. I just suggested something different. I like to think that’s allowed. It was just that people were in the mood for something a little sillier this year. But I hope next year we’ll feel like trying something this complicated and lovely.”

“Not everybody could do a quilt like this.” Helen made it clear by the expression in her eyes who “everybody” was.

“I’ll confess it would be beyond my talents,” Grace said, trying hard not to let Helen egg her on. “I’ve had to give up all those tiny little stitches. Not that I ever made any quite so neat.”

“Those art quilts of yours don’t need a lot of craftsmanship.”

“No, just imagination and courage. I certainly seem to have plenty of the latter. Look where I am and what I’m doing. Against all the odds.”

Helen humphed and continued through the room. With a sigh, Grace followed her into a small but attractive kitchen. With an effort she lifted the basket to the counter and reminded herself to hold her temper.

“Why don’t you let me put everything in the refrigerator? I’m sure you don’t feel like fussing.” Grace opened the door and saw there was room if she rearranged a few things, which she did.

“I feel just fine.” Helen didn’t say anything for a few moments as Grace began to unpack the basket. “Now that it doesn’t much matter,” she added at last.

Grace spoke from behind the refrigerator door. “The timing of that cold was terrible. I’m sorry you couldn’t go to see your quilt hanging at the show. Whether you believe it or not, I really do mean that. I hope you can go next year.”

“Next year doesn’t always come when you’re as old as I am.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Grace closed the refrigerator. “I wish I’d gone to more quilt shows when it was still easy enough. And more art exhibits, and traveled more to see things I can only dream about now.”

“Never wanted to do all that.” Helen sucked on the inside of her cheek. “Well, maybe I did once, but that was so long ago, I was a different person. I don’t remember her much.”

“I do. You were full of life and energy. Your eyes always sparkled, and you smiled a lot. Tom used to say you were like a candle flame that couldn’t be blown out. He said no matter how dark things got, everybody counted on you to keep a light burning.”

“You got no call to talk about my Tom.”

“Oh, of course I do. Tom was my dearest friend.”

Helen made a noise somewhere between a snort and a grumble. “Is that what you come about? To tell me how sorry you are Tom’s gone, to remind me of all that?”

“Do I need to remind you? Don’t you think about Tom every time you look at me?”

“Thanks for the food. But I’m feeling tired now. You’d better git.”

“Helen.” Grace took a risk and rested her fingers on Helen’s arm. “I loved your brother. For a long time I thought Tom would be the man I married.”

Helen just stared at her, eyes narrowed.

“Tom was the one who didn’t want to marry
me,
” Grace said.

“That’s not true! You broke his heart. There was never another girl after you went and married your brother-in-law. He carried a torch right up until the time he left here to get himself killed in Guam. There were girls aplenty who wanted him, but he wouldn’t look at a one. And after he died? I had to clean out his bedroom. And I was the one found a photograph of
you
right there in the drawer by his bed.”

Grace looked at her watch. She’d made a mistake coming here. There was nothing else she could say now. She’d hoped that this gesture of goodwill and a piece of the truth would soothe Helen and help her feel better about Grace’s presence in the community again. But she should have known it wasn’t going to turn out that way.

She looked back up at Helen. “I’ll go now. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“It only bothers me you won’t admit the truth. That you led my brother on, then just up and left him, high and dry. And he was so sad, so downright dejected afterward, that he didn’t have any good reason to live and no good reason not to die!”

“That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

“Not so long to me. He was my brother.”

“And the man I thought I loved.”

“Then why didn’t you marry him? Why did you tell him goodbye? You can’t say one thing and mean the other!”

So far Grace had managed to stay relatively calm, but now anger was beginning to get the better of her. “I already told you, Tom didn’t want to marry me.”

“Of course he did. He kept your photo, in a frame! It said ‘Love from Grace’ in one corner.

“Oh, I gave him the photo, all right. When I thought—” She stopped. “I’m leaving.” She pivoted smartly and started back into the living room, a much lighter basket flapping against her side.

“What did you think?” Helen demanded. “That maybe Tom would leave the Valley for you? Is that what it was about? Then he told you he couldn’t, that he belonged here with his family, so you threw him over so you could leave town and never look back?”

“Did I leave town?” Grace faced Helen again. “No, I didn’t. I stayed here, married a man who was grieving for my sister and became a mother to my two nephews. After that, until Ben died, I never got much farther than Washington, D.C., and then only for the occasional shopping trip. So don’t you try to put that on me. What happened between me and Tom had nothing to do with my desire to get out of here.”

“Then what did it have to do with?”

“That was between us.”

“That’s all you can say, because there’s nothing else
to
say. I already hit the nail on the head.”