Sweetgrass (9 page)

Mama June looked into her daughter’s large blue eyes, so much like her own, and felt her resolve slip. The thought of letting go of the burdens of Sweetgrass, of simply moving on to someplace easier, of not pinching pennies and worrying about money, was seductive.

Yet the guilt of letting go of the family land that Preston loved more than anything else weighed heavily on her mind.

“Won’t you miss Sweetgrass if it’s sold?” Morgan asked Nan.

Nan’s expression shifted as a soft smile reluctantly eased across her face. “Yes, sure,” she conceded. “I guess I will.”

“We all will,” Adele interjected, casting an impatient glance at her niece. “That’s not the point. We mustn’t slip into nostalgia or we’ll never be able to deal with what’s on our plate today. Besides,” she said as an aside to Morgan, “I thought you made your opinion perfectly clear years ago when you left. I believe it had something to do with dynamite and sending the whole place to hell.”

“He was angry,” Mama June quickly said. Making excuses for Morgan came readily to her.

“That was more about what was between me and my father than about the land,” he replied, the first hint of steel entering in his voice. “And to that point, this decision is between my mother and my father.”

He paused, meeting the challenge in Hank’s glare. Then, spreading his palms against the table, he said in a controlled voice that brooked no further discussion, “Mama June has listened to all of our opinions and weighed them. She’s made her decision.” He looked directly at his aunt. “I’m sure if she wants you to know something more, she’ll contact you.”

Mama June felt a tightness in her stomach as Morgan’s defense became offense. She glanced quickly at Adele. Her jaw worked at what she certainly viewed as impudence. Adele Blakely was not accustomed to such treatment and Mama June knew she’d hear no end of it.

“Well, I know when I’ve been asked to leave,” Adele said, springing to her feet.

“Adele, don’t go,” implored Mama June. Adele often felt pique and walked off in a huff, expecting others to make amends.

“I can’t say that I’m happy with this decision, but you obviously don’t want my opinion.” She shot a glance at Hank.

Hank rose and gave the
let’s-go
look to Nan. She promptly followed suit. Adele walked swiftly out, followed closely by Hank. Nan shrugged helplessly then followed her husband from the room. Mama June heard her calling up the stairs for the boys to hurry up, they were leaving.

Mama June sighed and pulled herself from her chair.

“Let them go, Mama,” Morgan said.

She was sorely tempted. She’d worked tirelessly for days to prepare this dinner and felt utterly spent. A mountain of dishes awaited her in the kitchen. She didn’t care at that moment if Adele agreed with her decision or not, nor whether she stormed off, not to be heard from for months, as she’d done in the past. Nonetheless, her upbringing dragged her to her feet.

“It goes against my grain to let a guest, much less my sister-in-law, leave my home upset.”

So she hurried after her, her heels clicking loudly on the polished hardwood floors. Nan was already at her car having a heated exchange with Hank. On the porch, Mama June placed her hand on Adele’s sleeve, arresting her hasty departure.

“Let’s not argue,” she said to Adele.

“I’m very upset.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But, dear, we need to come together now. For Preston’s sake. He needs us all.”

In a spontaneous rush, Adele stepped forward to hug her, tight and fierce. Mama June was swept back to long ago when they were best friends.

Adele pulled back and urged her with her dark eyes blazing, “Think again, Mary June. Before it’s too late.”

Then Adele released her and walked swiftly down the stairs to her car. Blackjack barked madly from his den beneath the porch.

Mama June heard the screen door slam behind her and felt her son’s arm slide around her shoulder. She sighed and leaned into him, relishing his kiss upon the top of her head.

They watched until Adele’s sleek Jaguar, followed by Nan’s Lexus, disappeared down the drive, then stood side by side for several minutes longer. Each relished the peace of the family’s departure. Each was going over in their mind the comments that had been made, dissecting the words and analyzing the intent.

“This storm will blow over,” he said to her.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, though she didn’t really feel so. Old scabs had been reopened that would take time to heal. “Perhaps I put too much store in all going well today. I so wanted their cooperation.”

“And you’ll have it. They just had to blow off steam.”

“I’m not so certain. Adele can be rigid, and Nan’s a dear but she follows Hank’s lead.”

“She’s a sweet kid, but she has no backbone.”

Mama June didn’t respond, fearing that the same might have been said about herself over the years.

“Adele pinched the cup, you know,” Morgan said with amusement in his voice.

“What? The porridge cup?”

He nodded, his lips twisted in disgust.

Mama June shook her head. “It was hers, anyway.”

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“No, let it go. I offered it to her, after all. Besides, it’s not the first thing she’s pinched, as you call it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s never something of great value, at least monetarily. But over the years I’ve noticed a photograph missing, or a piece of family silver, or a painting from her old bedroom. All things that I’m sure she’s rationalized belong to her. For whatever reasons, she needs them. I’ve found it best just not to say anything.”

Movement caught her attention, and turning her head, she saw a thick-set woman in a blue floral dress and a purple slicker coming up the sidewalk from around back.

“Nona!” she called out with a quick wave.

Nona’s face rose toward the stairs and broke into a quick grin. “’Afternoon, Mary June.”

“Nona!” Morgan exclaimed, dashing down the stairs. He swooped Nona in his arms and they hugged warmly, instantly nanny and child again. Morgan held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. I swear, you never change. Make a pact with the devil to look so good at your age? And it’s no use lying. I know exactly how old you are.”

“Just living the good life,” Nona quipped. “More than I can say for you! What’s all this long, shaggy hair? And buttons missing from your shirt? You used to be such a fine dresser. Remember those white bucks? Lord, you were like a peacock in those days. You need some caring after, that’s for certain. Don’t they have women where you been living? You can’t find yourself a wife?”

“Come in, come in,” Mama June exclaimed, gesturing with her hand toward the house.

“I can’t stay long. I came along with Elmore. He’s out yonder checking on the sweetgrass,” she said, indicating the direction of the fields with a jerk of her chin. “The first pulling of the season will be here before we know it. Speaking of which…” She lifted her arms to Mama June to offer a beautiful sweetgrass basket with a curved handle.

“Elmore and I, we were sorry to hear Mr. Preston took sick and wanted to bring something. From our house to yours.”

Mama June was more touched by the sentiment than she could express. She took hold of the intricately sewn bread basket made of coiled sweetgrass, rush and pine needles with
the same reverence she would an olive branch. Inside the basket, tucked neatly in a blue-checked napkin, were Nona’s homemade buttermilk biscuits.

She felt her heart shift and pump with age-old affection. “Nona, this is so kind of you. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted one of your biscuits. Morgan was saying how he longed for them. Please, won’t you come in? We just had dinner, but I have pecan pie. And coffee.” She grinned wide. Nona’s love for coffee was well known.

“Maybe just for a coffee. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with that wild boy of yours.”

Later, after coffee and pie were finished and Morgan had gone off to tend to Blackjack, Mama June spoke in confidential tones to Nona about what had transpired that afternoon.

“Good riddance,” Nona said, her lip curled in disgust. “That woman is a real pain in the you-know-where. Always has been.”

“What have I done?” Mama June asked, staring out with dismay.

“You showed some backbone, that’s what you’ve done. Praise Lord!”

Mary June placed her fingers to her brow. “A lot of good it did me. I’ve alienated my family. Now I’m alone.”

Nona pursed her lips, then said, “No, you’re not. You have me.”

Mama June dropped her hand. “But…”

“I realized I was no kind of friend to let you go through this alone. Not after all we’ve been through together. Now, I can’t do all I used to—and neither can you. But together we’ll manage. I’ll come by to make sure the house is running smoothly and make certain you’re not starving while you tend to your husband. And I’ll lend an ear when you need it. It’s the least any friend could do.”

Mama June’s hands squeezed around Nona’s. “I can’t thank you enough. Just knowing you’re here…”

“Let’s not get all weepy. Lord knows, we’ve got our work cut out for us!”

NONA SIGHED HEAVILY
as she brought her van to a stop at Sweetgrass. She looked through the shaded windshield at the handsome white house. It sure was a picture, she thought, cloaked as it was in the pink light of early morning. She’d spent the better part of her life working in this old house and a part of her was happy to come back to it. Maize couldn’t understand such feelings—and that was okay. Nona prided herself on the choices she’d made in her own life and didn’t care to change her ways now. The wind did blow when Maize heard she’d decided to come back to work at Sweetgrass, but it was up to Maize to accept what was.

Nona pulled herself out from the shiny white van, stretching a bit after landing in the soft gravel. She’d bought the car after years of saving her basket money, and every time she looked at it, a ripple of pride coursed through her. Usually it
was stuffed to the brim with her baskets, but she’d removed the treasures to store safely in her house until things were settled here at Sweetgrass. She pulled from the van a large canvas bag filled with grass, palmetto fronds and her tools. Every spare minute, her fingers sewed the baskets.

Blackjack greeted her in his usual manner, a grayed muzzle at her thigh and his tail waving behind like a tom-tom drum.

“Hello, you ol’ hound dog,” she exclaimed with affection, bending to pat the fur.

Morgan’s voice caught her by surprise. “’Morning, Nona! You’re here early. What? You can’t stay away?”

His tall, lanky form came from around the side of the house. He was dressed in a faded old T-shirt that was torn at the neck, paint-splattered jeans and worn hiking boots caked with mud. His face was as yet unshaven, and his thick brown curls tumbled askew on his head. He looked like the eight-year-old boy she remembered running in from the field, blue eyes twinkling, to show her a robin’s egg or a snake skin or some other treasure he’d unearthed.

Nona clucked her tongue. “What you got in your hands there?” she asked, indicating the towel he was carrying. “A frog?”

He lifted a paintbrush from the towel. “I’m fixing up the kitchen house. Mama June wants the new aide to stay there. I’ve patched up a few leaks in the roof, put in a window air conditioner in the bedroom, new screens on the windows and now I’m finishing up a fresh coat of paint. You know,” he said, scratching his jaw, “it’s looking pretty good. I’m thinking maybe I should move in, instead.”

“Oh, no you don’t. That girl’s going to want her own space. So’s your mama. You just be a good boy and finish fixing that place up for Miss…what’s her name?”

“Kristina Hays.”

She acknowledged this with a nod. “Well, I’ve got things to get done before Miss Hays arrives, too.”

“I hope she works out.”

“You and me both.” She looked over to the house. “Seems quiet in there.”

“Mama’s sleeping now, or was last time I checked.”

Her brows rose. “Your mama’s still asleep?” She glanced quickly at her wristwatch. “She always rises with the sun. She’s not sick, is she?”

He shook his head. “Just exhausted. I didn’t bother her, and frankly, I’m glad she’s catching up. She’s been going non-stop.”

“That’s just her way. When she’s got herself a project, she gives one hundred percent. And given that this project is your daddy, she’s straining all her gears.”

“Yeah, but she’s sixty-six years old.”

“I’m sixty-eight! What’s your point?”

Morgan laughed. Nona was one of those people who was ageless. She seemed to him today to be the same woman she was when he was a boy. She still stood straight-backed and full-breasted, like some Wagnerian princess. Her hair still gleamed, too, though more like the black-and-white osprey’s wing than a raven’s. She wore it in much the same, short-curled style. Most of all, her spirit had not aged one whit.

One of his first memories of Nona was when he was three or four. Her finger was wagging and her eyes were flames as she scolded his older brother, Hamlin, within an inch of his life. Ham was much older, around thirteen. Yet there he was with his head bowed, filled with remorse. Up till that time, his big brother had seemed to him like a prince among men, a hero beyond reproach. Certainly his parents had never laid down the law like that. Morgan never figured out exactly
what it was that Hamlin had done to rile Nona so, though he knew it had something to do with Hamlin taking Morgan out on the boat. Ham had taken him out lots of times without permission, but Morgan was too young to understand why Nona would be so upset about that. Only in retrospect did he see that it was an omen. Nonetheless, his earth had shifted that day as he witnessed her power over his brother.

Morgan put his hands up in mock surrender. “No point made.”

Her dark eyes gleamed in amused triumph. “She’ll get herself up before too long. You eat yet?” she asked him.

“Grabbed some orange juice and a Pop-Tart.”

Nona wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s no wonder you’re looking like a scarecrow. I’m amazed you managed to live so long all alone.”

“Who said I was alone?”

That caught her off guard and her face showed it. She quickly recouped, delivering a no-nonsense glare at his smirk. “Don’t you just wish. What woman is gonna hitch her star to someone as dog-ugly as you? Come back inside in about half an hour. I’m fixing to roll out some biscuits and fry up some bacon. And coffee,” she added, her body yearning for her beloved brew.

Morgan smiled as he watched Nona climb the stairs to the house. It wasn’t often he could render Nona speechless.

Hours later, Morgan was applying the last coat of Charleston Green paint to the kitchen house front door when he heard a car pulling up to the house followed by Blackjack’s gruff bark of alarm. The dog’s arthritic legs strained under the effort of rising. Feeling like an old dog himself after a long morning of painting, he slowly straightened with one hand anchoring the small of his back. His gaze followed Blackjack’s rush toward the sound of crunching gravel.

From around the house, a tall, lean woman dressed in bleached jean lowriders and a cuffed white shirt walked toward him with a straight-backed, confident, hip-swaying gait. Her oversize, scuffed brown leather purse banged against her slender hip in steady, seductive rhythm. Morgan watched her, squinting in the noonday sun. Against the glare, her long, wildly curly hair seemed an aura around her head that captured and held the golden light.

“Hi there,” she called out as she approached. Her voice lilted at the end, like a song.

“Hello,” he responded with more reserve as she breezily sauntered near. “Can I help you?”

Up close, the force of her personality dominated his first impression. The young woman vibrated with life. It sparked out from her bright blue eyes and shone from her very white, no-holds-barred smile.

“I hope so,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. “I’m looking for the Blakely residence.”

“Well, you found it.”

“Good! The directions said to turn in at the Sweetgrass gate and you’re the only house I’ve found.” She put out her hand. “I’m Kristina Hays. The agency sent me.”

He blinked again. “
You’re
the new aide?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile faltering. “I hope you’re expecting me.”

Morgan quickly recouped. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m Morgan. Morgan Blakely.”

She took his hand and he was impressed by the strength of her handshake.

“You seem surprised to see me,” she said.

“It’s just…well, you’re different than I expected.” He didn’t quite know what he expected, exactly. “Younger,” he added lamely.

“I don’t believe in age. But don’t worry, I’m old enough. And I’ve been doing this for years, though not in South Carolina. I only moved here a few months ago. From California,” she added, as though this fact alone qualified her for the job.

Blackjack, who had been circling anxiously, finally could bear it no longer and nosed closer, boldly began sniffing her feet.

“Hey there, big fella!” she exclaimed warmly. “Are we ignoring you? What’s your name?” She dropped her bag and bent to warmly pat his head and flop his ears.

Rather than be suspicious of the stranger, Blackjack whined happily at her attention, rudely pawing her legs.

“Blackjack!” Morgan called. “Back off!”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, still stroking the black fur. “Dogs like me. Blackjack, huh? Good name.”

He lifted his chin toward the house. “Here comes my mother now.”

He felt a boyish pride and affection at the sight of his mother striding along the path from the main house to the kitchen house. She was simply dressed in a dark skirt, floral blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair was a snowy-white mass twisted into a bun at the back of her head. Signs of the beauty she once was added charm to the graciousness and fresh, scrubbed appeal of her open, smiling face.

“Miss Hays? I’m Mary June Blakely. Welcome to Sweetgrass.”

Kristina’s warmth matched his mother’s as she reached out to take her offered hand. The two women’s eyes met and measured; Morgan could feel the tacit approval in the air.

“When does Mr. Blakely arrive home?” Kristina asked.

“Hopefully tomorrow. Possibly the following day. We’ve been anxious for your arrival to help us smooth his transition.”

“Homecomings are always stressful, but if we’re prepared, we’ll sail through.”

Morgan noted that his mother’s shoulders relaxed at Kristina’s use of the word
we.
Although she didn’t voice it, he knew Mama June was worried what her new role would be once the aide arrived.

“How long have you been in this line of work?” Mama June asked.

“About eight years. I was trained originally as a therapeutic masseuse, but my dad had a stroke a few years back and I took care of him. I guess you could say I found my true calling.”

“You
did
get formal training as a medical aide?” Morgan interjected with suspicion.

She cast him a sidelong glance, clueing into his worries about her qualifications. “It’s all in here.” She dug into her large leather bag and pulled out a crinkled white envelope. “I believe the agency sent you my résumé but I like to bring my own, just in case. All my formal training is listed, as well as my credentials as a massage therapist. But believe me, my real training came from taking care of my father.”

Mama June’s eyes softened with concern. “I’m sorry to learn your father was ill, too. Is he much improved?”

“He died last year.”

“Oh, dear,” Mama June responded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My father’s stroke was quite massive,” Morgan told her. “He’s completely paralyzed on his right side and he can’t speak at all. Are you familiar with cases like this?”

“Aphasics are my specialty,” she replied.

“How wonderful,” Mama June replied in a rush, obviously taken with Kristina. “We’re lucky to have you, Miss Hays.”

“Please, call me Kristina,” she said with an all-encompassing smile.

“Morgan,” Mama June said, turning to him. “Won’t you
show Kristina where she’ll be staying?” Then to Kristina, “Take a few minutes to freshen up and unpack. When you’re ready, won’t you join us for lunch? Say, twelve-thirty? You’ll meet Nona. She’s the other major link in our team.”

He realized he was still standing there with a paintbrush in his hand. “Just give me a minute.”

He walked back to the front of the kitchen house and dumped the brush in a plastic bag and covered the nearly empty paint can. Then he waved her over and began wiping his hand with a towel. “I’ve finished for the day. It would appear just in time, too.” He indicated the kitchen house with a jerk of his chin. The brick was sparkling white with a fresh coat of paint. Morgan had also painted the shutters the same aquamarine color that was on the shutters of the main house.

“It’s a nice place inside. There’s lots of light. I think you’ll like it.”

Her generous mouth slipped open. “You’re kidding, right? This place is for me?”

“For as long as you work here, anyway.”

“I just assumed I’d be sleeping in some spare bedroom.”

“You can do that, if you prefer,” he said hopefully. “I can move out here.”

“No! No, I love it!” She seemed genuinely pleased.

Morgan was torn between disappointment that she loved the kitchen house and pleasure that his hard work fixing it up was appreciated. “Come on in. I’ll give you the cook’s tour. Mind the paint.”

It was a solidly built, one-story brick house that had both the charm and the disadvantages of antiquity. Morgan had to duck his head as he walked beneath the door’s low lintel and led her into the small house. It was divided in two by an enormous brick fireplace. A second, smaller fireplace nestled in the northern wall, and on the southern, a small, angled green
house had been added. Behind the center fireplace was a second room of equal size with a third fireplace. This room was also white and spare, with only a black iron bed and a painted pine dresser against the brick walls.

“I haven’t gotten around to putting the rest of the furniture back in yet,” he said.

“I like my furnishings spare.” Kristina’s eyes scanned the room and her voice almost purred. “It’s perfect.”

The floor planks creaked as she walked around the room, her neck craning to study the dark wood crossbeams that dominated the ceiling. Her body was slim but taut, and he’d bet his last dollar she did yoga. If she liked things spare, like he did, then he knew she’d appreciate the simple charm of sunlight that filtered in through small, mullioned windows covered with crisp, fresh white lace.

“Was this the guest house?” she asked, taking interest.

He looked around the house dispassionately, having told the history countless times before. “Originally it was the kitchen house, which is what we still call it. Back in the 1800s when the main house was built, fire was a real threat, so kitchens were in a separate building. The servants would carry the food to and from the dining room. Sometime after the turn of the century, my grandfather added on to the main house, building a new kitchen. He added running water to this place, electricity and a septic tank.”

“He made it a dwelling,” she said.