Glory Road Read online

  “What I mean is, it sounds perfect. And I think we can do this without a coordinator. A friend of my dad has a catering business and he’s going to take care of the food. Some high school friends of mine have a band, and they’re going to play during the rehearsal. My uncle is a pastor, so he’ll officiate.” I could hear the smile in her voice, but I imagined her trying to keep it tight. “That’s all we need, right?”

  “What about invitations?”

  “Right.” Another shuffle of papers. “I need to get on those.”

  I laughed. “I’ll try to help as much as I can, but don’t depend on me to remember all the details. Flowers, I can do, but that’s about it. If you’re not going to use a planner for everything, I’d suggest at least hiring someone to help you on the day of the wedding. That way you can enjoy your day and not have to think about whether your bridesmaids are where they’re supposed to be.”

  Back inside the shop, I sat behind the stool, kicked off my boots, and pulled out a notebook. “Now, your dad said you wanted the wedding to be Southern but not fancy. If you were in town, I’d say we could sit down together and you could give me an idea of what you want. Instead, maybe you could just email me some photos you like?”

  “No need,” Olivia said. “I put it all on a Pinterest board.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s great.”

  “I’ve been saving photos there for two years. Ever since Jared and I started dating.”

  I was surprised at her display of romantic optimism. Although listening to her talk, I figured it may have just been part of her precise personality. Nail down all the important details early.

  “They’ll definitely help. I can see what types of flowers you want to work with and check with wholesalers around here to see if they carry them. If it’s too exotic or rare, they might have to ship it in from somewhere else, and we probably wouldn’t have time for that.”

  “Oh, nothing exotic for me. I want the arrangements to be loose and natural. Something to fit the setting. Inside Oak House it’s polished silver and expensive bourbon, but outside it’s bare feet and beers on the dock.”

  Loose. Natural. Bare feet. I could imagine a wedding like that. Not mine, of course. My wedding was a grand ceremony. Two hundred guests—I only knew about forty of them—crammed shoulder to shoulder in the Cathedral of Saint Paul to see Chris marry his small-town bride. I wore a creamy Carolina Herrera, beaded heels, and flowers in my hair, trying so hard to be something else, someone else, anything other than what I was—a girl from a red-dirt road in a small country town. And I felt beautiful. A leading lady on the arm of her handsome, successful husband. It was exactly what I wanted. Then.

  “I think it sounds lovely,” I said to Olivia. And I meant it. “Have you and your dad set a budget for the flowers? That’ll give me a good starting place.”

  “There’s not really a set number. Just let me know how much everything is and we’ll take care of it.”

  “Okay . . . It would probably help if I had some sort of guideline though. How many guests are you expecting?” The size of the wedding would give me an idea of how extensive the flower arrangements needed to be.

  “We’ve just about finished up our list. Only close friends and family will be at the ceremony, but we’re at about 250 for the reception.”

  I swallowed. “That’s . . . quite a large wedding.”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “It’s gonna be big.” That precise speaking voice—as if she’d been presenting her case before a judge—relaxed a little, exposing a twinge of her Alabama drawl. “But whatever your fee is, we can pay it. It’ll be no problem.”

  Right. My fee. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Also, it may help you to see my dad’s house sometime soon. That way you’ll get an idea of where flowers need to go and how to set everything up. I’m thinking the band will go under the big oak in the yard, but Dad thought that’s where the food should go, to keep it in the shade.”

  I rubbed a hand across my forehead just as Mama walked carefully up the front steps of the shop, a tray of waxed paper–wrapped goodies in her hands. She nudged the front door open with her toe and exhaled. I pointed to a table near the window that had some open space. “Just keep in mind,” I said to Olivia, “I’m here for the flowers. That’s it.”

  Mama cleared her throat and pointed out the front window to where Mr. Rainwater was chugging up the driveway, the back of his truck loaded down.

  “Right. I know. You’re the florist.”

  I was about to correct her, but another phone rang in the background and a muffled voice called out. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—Jessie. I have a meeting starting in just a few minutes. I’ll shoot you an email with a link to my Pinterest page. Just get back with me when you have a chance to look it over and we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds perfect.” I hung up and leaned back against the wall.

  “A Bridezilla?” Mama asked, her gaze on Mr. Rainwater as he fumbled to unhook his wheelbarrow from the bed of his truck.

  “Not exactly. But she is having a big old Southern wedding. Two hundred and fifty guests.”

  “My stars. You’ll have your work cut out for you with that one.”

  “You too, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. And I’ve got just the thing for her Southern wedding. I’ve been watching that new girl on the food channel—the one who lives on the farm? I wrote down one of her recipes for a fried fig pie. Pair that with some cream cheese frosting and it’d be perfect for the dessert table.”

  I laughed, imagining Mama standing next to a dessert table full of her baked creations on the lawn of Sumner’s fancy river house. “She didn’t say anything about desserts, but if she mentions needing extra help, I’ll let you know.”

  “In fact, maybe I’ll go see if I can unearth that recipe. I wrote it down on the back of the obits. Plus . . .” She waved her hand toward Mr. Rainwater. “It’s too early for all that.” She took off out the back door. “I’ll be back when the coast is clear,” she called from the porch. The screen door slammed behind her.

  Sumner’s business card sat on the counter in front of me. I ran my fingers across the raised letters again. Images of his home, Oak House, sailed through my mind. A dock at sunset, a heron flying low over the water, an icy drink at my elbow. I shook my head. I wouldn’t be relaxing there, I’d be working. I didn’t know the man, hardly knew his daughter, but they were my job now, and from the sound of it, I’d be paid well for it. That’d go far toward helping with the computer issue and the repairs necessary around the place.

  I stood and shoved my feet back into my dirty boots. I blew my bangs out of my eyes, tightened my ponytail at the back of my head, and headed out into the sunshine.

  CHAPTER 12

  Re: Moving plants from their natural habitat Dear Ashley, If the roots are healthy, keep those babies where they are and let them thrive. If they’re thin and weak looking, you could try moving them to another location. However, in my experience, a plant with weak roots likely won’t be satisfied anywhere, no matter what kind of love or attention it gets.

  —KATHERINE GRACE, YOUR DAILY DAISY

  GUS

  I knew Harvis Rainwater was in love with me. And I may have been quick with a bad word about him, but I wasn’t above admitting I considered him from time to time. He always had dirt under his fingernails and Lord Almighty, there were days when he smelled three kinds of bad from that load in the back of his truck, but he was a sweet, patient man. He also had kind eyes, eyes that made me want to lie down in them and take a catnap. Eyes that made me realize just how long it had been since I’d sat on my own front porch with a man who wasn’t there to deliver my mail and enjoy a glass of cold lemonade before heading next door. Eyes that made me think I may have been approaching seventy, but I still had needs.

  And that was just the thing. I was knocking on the door to my senior years, willing to bet the earth, air, and holy Trinity I hadn’t used up all my shots at love, wh
ile Jessie, in the prime of her life, thought she was long past the possibility of it. It just broke my heart. She thought no one knew about her late nights on the porch when she’d sit with her hand over her heart, massaging it like she was hoping to tamp down those desires and longings flapping around in her chest like moths around a lightbulb.

  But I saw her. I noticed. Underneath all her bravado, her insistence that she was fine on her own, there was a woman scared to admit she was lonely. I cast part of the blame on Glory Road itself. I’ll tell you a story.

  One Saturday afternoon when Jessie was about sixteen, Tom asked her to help him clean up the yard. We’d had a storm the night before and our property was covered in pinecones and small tree branches. Jessie moaned and groaned as teenagers are required by law to do, then yanked on her tennis shoes and went out to help him.

  While I laid out ingredients for my Dolly—a peach-and-pear crumble with cinnamon-pecan streusel on top—and watched from the kitchen window, Tom and Jessie raked and swept the storm debris into piles all over the yard. When they finished, Tom climbed onto his ancient John Deere riding mower. He waved at Jessie and patted the seat in front of him, but she shook her head. He cranked it up, then patted it again and waved her over.

  She mouthed a firm, “No,” and stayed where she was, leaning against the upturned rake, as if the raking job had zapped all her energy. But Tom didn’t stop, and I knew he wouldn’t until he got a smile out of her. He inched the mower forward a bit in her direction. She shook her head. He raised his eyebrows, then hit the gas, steering straight toward her.

  The thing was, this lawn mower was so ancient, its speed barely registered on the speedometer gauge. But Tom narrowed his eyes, hunched over like he was on the fastest motorcycle there ever was, and let it fly. Jessie showed off her perfect eye roll and hair flip, then I saw it—the hint of a smile. Tom must have seen it too, because he whooped and hollered and kept the mower plodding in her direction.

  She took off running, and their laughter trickled up to me in the kitchen. It was a sight to see—my lanky husband folded up on that slow-as-a-snail mower and our lovely, long-legged teenage daughter running around, acting like a carefree child.

  But it didn’t last long. When she stopped to catch her breath, she reached a hand out to steady herself against a walnut tree. I noticed the cotton candy–like swirls of webbing in the leaves at the same time I heard her shriek. She flew into the house, flailing her arms and wiping invisible bugs off her hands.

  “Why do we have to live in a place where everything is crawling, moving, or buzzing? That tree was covered in worms! Covered!”

  “Sugar, they’re just caterpillars. It happens every fall. They don’t bite, and you probably scared them more than they scared you.”

  She looked at me like I was crazy. “You say that like it’s totally normal to have your trees covered in worms.” She slid her hands up and down her arms. “Marcy and Carol Anne don’t have to deal with things like this. They live in a normal neighborhood with houses and garage doors that open and close and a pest service that keeps bugs away.”

  She stomped out of the kitchen, still rubbing at the skin on her arms. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” she said just before she slammed her bedroom door.

  I peered out the window at Tom. He’d parked the John Deere and was now shoving the piles of debris into a large black trash bag. His shoulders sagged.

  I poured him a glass of tea and was about to bring it to him when Jessie entered the kitchen. Her eyes were softer now. “I don’t hate it here.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s home. But I do hate the bugs.” Jessie took the glass of tea out of my hand and went out the back door toward her daddy.

  Even then when she was caught up in the tangled web of teenage popularity, trying to figure out who she was and who she wanted to be, I knew a part of her felt more at ease here. When she was out with her friends, she was always dressing the part and trying to do and say the right things. Home was the place she could cast off that burden, even if she didn’t realize the burden was there in the first place.

  When she left for college, part of me thought she’d turn right back around and head home. Well, it took a little longer than that, but she did come back home. Glory Road had always been Jessie’s landing place, her home base, and being Chris’s wife for a few years didn’t change that.

  I understood—it was my home too, and you’d have to drag me by my fingernails to ever get me to leave. But the way this place had wound its way into her heart, mind, and soul made me hurt for her sometimes. Because to my eye, it seemed she thought this was all there was for her.

  There I was, a sixty-nine-year-old widow forgetting my own name some days, and I was actually considering Harvis Rainwater as a man to love. If that was the case, how in the world could my lovely daughter possibly think she was past the age of wanting—of needing—love, companionship, the touch and heart of a man?

  Something told me these two men appearing—or reappearing, as was the case with Ben Bradley—could be a harbinger of change in Jessie’s life if she’d just allow it, but her inclination would be to see them as a sideshow to her real life, rather than the main act. This was in no way about me trying to marry her off. I didn’t even know if these two men would amount to more than a hill of beans in the end. But the possibility of it—that’s what I wanted her to see. To understand. That her life wasn’t over just because she’d married the wrong man. That a fresh start could happen at any moment of any day.

  CHAPTER 13

  If it looks like your garden is livelier after a good thunderstorm, you’re right, but it’s not just the rain that causes the new lushness. In a strange tale of chemistry and weather, it’s the lightning that deposits necessary nutrients into your soil through the rain. Yet another reason to be thankful for those summertime thunderstorms.

  —AMANDA ANDERSON, SOUTHERN GARDENS A TO Z

  EVAN

  It got to where every time I walked to the end of the driveway for any reason, I looked down the road to see if Nick was there. To see if he was singing, walking Stanley, maybe walking home from the baseball field. I couldn’t help it. I made up reasons to walk out there—check for mail (even though the mailman always stopped by our mailbox at two fifteen exactly), take out the trash (something I rarely did under normal circumstances), or walk Mrs. Birdie home (even though I knew perfectly well she could walk herself on home without any assistance).

  I made myself available anytime an errand or a favor was needed, just so I could be within sight of the road. It was ridiculous. He was just a guy who moved in down the road, whose dad may or may not have broken my mom’s heart, who had a voice from heaven and a really cute dog on an adorable plaid leash. Nothing more.

  But still, when Mom asked me if I wanted to go with her on her evening run, I said, “Hang on, let me find my shoes.” I knew she hadn’t expected me to say yes—she was already out the door when she called over her shoulder—but she stopped and waited without asking any questions, which I so appreciated.

  Mom often asked me to run with her, but I rarely took her up on it, even though I ran track at Perry Middle School. Summers were just so hot and sweat was so gross. I preferred walking to running, shade to sun, anything to keep from feeling like my skin would boil away. But today running sounded good. Great, actually.

  I found my old track shoes—only a little too tight—under my bed and gathered my hair into a ponytail. Just inside the front door, I paused in front of the mirror. My cheeks were already flushed and my heart hammered in my chest. I took a deep breath and blew it out.

  I’ll be honest here. It wasn’t just that Nick was nice to look at. Which he was. It’s that he seemed like someone who might get me. Who wouldn’t be boring or treat me like a girl just there to look cute, which was what it seemed like most guys wanted. He seemed less . . . simpleminded.

  Outside, Mom was leaned over stretching her calves. When I closed the front door behind me, she s
traightened. “Ready?”

  It had rained earlier that afternoon, a hard and fast downpour, the kind of storm that turned our road into an orange-red river. Luckily, the edge of the road had grass and leaves to give us firm footing and keep us from kicking too much red mud all over our legs. Thunder still rolled, but it was far off, the skeletal remains of what had already blown through, and it was a good ten degrees cooler than earlier in the day.

  “I’m glad you came with me,” Mom said after a minute. Her ponytail swung side to side as she ran.

  Sometimes I could see what she must have looked like as a little girl. I’d seen pictures—Gus had photo albums all over her house—but seeing that youngness in her grown-up face was something different. It unsettled me a little—if you can still look like your little girl self when you’re grown, do you still feel little? Like you’re playing pretend and you really don’t feel like the adult everyone thinks you are?

  “Usually it’s just me and the bugs out here.”

  “Bugs?” I swatted at a gnat by my ear. “Great.”

  “I used to hate the bugs too. Now I don’t mind as much.” She smiled. “It’s just part of country life.”

  “I know, and I love it. I just don’t love all the tiny details.” I swatted at the gnat again. “Maybe I will once I’ve lived here as long as you have.”

  “I haven’t been here forever. Neither have you.” She paused. “Do you remember much from when we were in Birmingham?”

  I remembered some—our huge brick house, the lawn-care service, the landscaper, the housekeeper who came three times a week—but I only had one solid memory of the place. I had a friend up the road, the only other young child on our block. We’d climb this massive magnolia tree in her front yard and pretend we were squirrels whenever anyone would walk by.

  Well, I had one other memory, but I usually tried to block it out. It was the day Mom moved us out. Dad had followed us to the car, his eyes red, his shirt half buttoned. Behind him, a woman in bubblegumpink scrubs—I think they had little hearts on them—jogged out of the house. She tossed Mom’s bathing suit—the one with the flowers, the one she’d been so proud of only weeks before—into the back seat. “You forgot this.”