Glory Road Read online

  I shook my head. “All they’ll tell me is that it’ll keep happening, it’ll get worse, and I’ll end up in a home somewhere. I know how to Google.”

  “Tell Jessie and see a doctor. There could be treatment. Medicine. Something to slow this train down or at least keep it from derailing. Do it for me?”

  I’d been looking down to the floor—partly to check for streams of water trailing out from under the furniture and partly to keep him from seeing the embarrassment on my cheeks—but when he said that, I raised my head. “For you? Why would I do it for you?”

  He sighed, long and deep, heaving the air out of his nose. I’d seen this man nearly every day since Tom died. He’d been a faithful presence all these years—helping Jessie out with her plants, doing odd tasks around the house when I needed the help, offering up his services in any way he could. His truck, his overalls, his thick gray hair, his weathered skin were almost as familiar to me as my own shadow, yet the look he gave me—the determination in his eyes, the set of his mouth—it was as if a different man sat next to me on the couch. Not just Old Harvis from down the road, but Harvis, the man who rescued me, who very well could continue to rescue me if I let him. A man who wouldn’t buckle.

  “Okay,” I said. “Okay. Let me think about it.”

  He nodded. “You sure you’re feeling okay? I could stay—”

  “No, it’s fine.” I swallowed. “I need to get back over to Jessie’s for dinner. She’ll wonder where I am if I’m not there soon.”

  At the door he paused, then turned back to me with those soft green eyes that could carry me for days. “I know we haven’t . . . You probably don’t . . .”

  “What is it, Harvis?” I probably could have been a little gentler, but I wanted him to be direct. At our age, there was no need to beat around the bush.

  He tapped the door with his index finger, as if judging its strength or hardness. “I’m here for you if you need me. If you want me. That’s all.”

  And just like that, something snapped into place, like in baking when I added a little of this and a little of that and it was not quite right, but then one more dash of salt or cinnamon or nutmeg did the trick and I tasted it and it was perfect goodness. As if the right combination of spices had been there all along, waiting for me to stumble on it.

  CHAPTER 23

  Four-o’clocks were originally grown for their medicinal properties. It’s possible a nibble on these sweet flowers could cure what ails you, but I don’t recommend you try it. Instead, enjoy the tender blooms that open, as their name suggests, in the late afternoon and last through the sultry evening hours.

  —WENDELL BANCROFT SR., LATE BLOOMERS

  JESSIE

  I want it big and loose, with flowers and vines and those twirly little sticks tucked all around the lights.”

  Olivia was on a roll. I’d called her to talk about the chandelier I’d asked Harvis to build to hang from the rafters of the boathouse where the ceremony would take place. Up until this point, I’d thought the chandelier would be purely decorative—a way to add some greenery to the space and make the most of the tall ceiling and gorgeous rafters. Now I wasn’t sure.

  “Lights?” I asked.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to run electricity to it, right? Just run a line from the plug on one of the posts—I know there’s at least one because we used to have a radio out there that we had to plug in. Or—ooh! What if we used candles instead?”

  She’d taken to calling me on her morning treks to the subway. There was always a lot of background noise—voices, engines, horns, screeches, squeals—but she was never short on ideas, and her voice rang clear and crisp over the din.

  “What do you think? Candles would be romantic, right? Much more so than lightbulbs, even if we did use those cool Edison bulbs.”

  “Romantic, yes, although I don’t know how safe it’d be to have open flames near a bunch of combustible greenery.” Not to mention I had my doubts about whether Mr. Rainwater could construct the thing at all, much less outfit it with candles. I thought it was probably best not to mention the fact that I’d asked the elderly gentleman from down the road to build her chandelier.

  “Hmm. Good point.”

  “Unless . . .” As my gaze landed on the grapevine wreath hanging on the inside of Twig’s front door, a loose vision began to clarify itself in my mind—lengths of grapevine twisted together to form a large oval suspended parallel from the rafters. Eucalyptus leaves, dried seed pods, and simple flowers tucked in here and there. Tea-light candles suspended in mini glass jars hanging from the chandelier but well below the greenery. She’d have her natural look and the romantic glow of candles but without the risk of burning the place down. “Let me think on it a bit. I may have an idea.”

  I texted Sumner after lunch: If you don’t mind, I’d like to come by again to measure some spaces in the boathouse. We’re working on a chandelier.

  Less than half a minute later, he responded: What about tonight?

  Then a moment later: Maybe we could have dinner too, if you don’t have plans.

  My thumbs hovered over the screen. A few days before, I’d so boldly—so quickly—said yes to his offer of a “real date,” but now I was second-guessing my spontaneity.

  I’d call and ask you like a proper gentleman, but I’m in a meeting that isn’t anywhere near over. A bunch of suits sitting around talking money and turf grass. You’d hate it.

  You assume I don’t know anything about grass. I do have a horticulture degree.

  A few seconds ticked by, then: I stand corrected. How about my house, 7:00. Bring your tape measure, then I’ll take you out and you can astound me with your horticultural insights.

  I bit my lip. See you then.

  A few hours later, Evan entered the shop through the back door, her face pink and damp, her knees covered in dirt smudges. She went straight to the sink at the back and dunked her arms under the cold water, then cupped water in her hands and poured it over the back of her neck. I could hear her sigh of relief all the way in the front of the shop.

  Once I made the decision to fill her week with chores after her little jaunt down the road with Nick, it hadn’t been hard to find extra work for her to do. Weeding near the back fence as she’d been doing today, unloading shipments, watering, loading customers’ cars, helping with home deliveries—it was everything she normally did, just more of it. I even tasked her with making up some of the small arrangements I kept on the front table. She actually seemed to enjoy those, and I made a mental note to give her that responsibility more often.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like Nick—he was a likable kid, and with Ben as his father, he no doubt had a decent amount of goodness deep inside. It was more that I feared what he represented: Evan was growing up. Along with that would come the desire to experiment, to push against her boundaries, to figure out who she was and who she wanted to become. I’d gone so haywire in my pursuit of who I’d mistakenly thought I wanted to be, it made my head and heart pound to think of her making the same mistakes—or worse—in her quest to become her own woman. I couldn’t force her down a certain path, but it was so hard to let her make her own way. Learning to walk on her own feet was a necessary part of growing up, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t rein her in when necessary.

  “You okay?” I called to her once she turned off the water and held a towel up to her face. “Late afternoon’s pretty hot for weeding. Why don’t you work on something else and hold off on the rest of that until the morning?”

  She shook her head. “I’m almost finished. I don’t want to have to do it again tomorrow.”

  “Okay, then what about using my stool? If you sit on that, your knees won’t hurt as bad.”

  “The little old lady stool? No thanks. My knees are fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” I would have corrected her for her jab about the stool, but the truth was if I didn’t use the stool, an hour or two of kneeling in the garden made my knees feel creaky. I was thankful for
the little old lady stool.

  She pulled a can of Sprite from the fridge and took a long swig.

  “I’m headed back out to the river after we close up here today. Will you be okay with Gus?”

  “Sure.” She turned but then paused with her hand on the door. “Can I come? I kind of want to see this guy’s fancy house.”

  I hesitated. Any other time I’d jump at the chance to spend nearly an hour of uninterrupted time in the car with my daughter. Especially if she was the one to suggest it. But the dinner. What would he say if I showed up with Evan and bailed on our date? He didn’t seem to be the kind of man who’d get upset over something like that—after all, he had a daughter. Surely he’d understand me wanting to spend time with mine.

  “You know what? Don’t worry about it. It was just a thought.”

  “Oh no, honey, it’s fine. Let me just—”

  “It’s okay. It’s better that I stay here anyway. Gus just discovered The Gilmore Girls on Netflix and loves it. She needs me around so I can translate Lorelai and Rory’s conversations.” Evan pushed open the screen door and breezed out. As the door thudded closed behind her, something in me splintered. My throat was tight and pinpricks jabbed behind my eyes, but I blinked them away.

  Sunset on Sumner’s dock was just as beautiful as it had been the first time I showed up at his house. At least this time I managed to stay on my feet and act like a mature adult. I was thankful, however, that he couldn’t hear the hammering in my heart.

  To be honest, I hadn’t decided what exactly I thought about him. I was completely bewildered by his attention and captivated by his charm, his polish, his confidence. But occasionally, a quiet, annoying voice said, Watch out, and I knew it was in no small part because of my ex-husband.

  Chris had appeared in my life in a similarly random way, and he had been equally as attractive and captivating. It was him, his life, his prominence. He was seductive, just as Sumner was. Was I letting myself head down the same wrong road again, or was Sumner different? He certainly felt different. Not that I was necessarily looking for different. I wasn’t looking for anyone at all.

  As a single mother who worked in the dirt, had failed at marriage, and practically lived with my mother, I was not the prime candidate to date anyone, much less someone like Sumner, but he was here and he was asking. He thought I was intriguing. Standing on his dock in my loose summery dress with my hair pulled up and gloss on my lips, I felt leagues out of my comfort zone, which would make Mama happy. It felt vaguely like I was taking a nosedive off a high cliff, but it felt good too. I’d said no a lot. Maybe it was time to say yes.

  It didn’t take long to decide where the chandelier should hang and to measure out the necessary space. I snapped a few photos and drew a quick sketch of my plan. Before long, we were in his Land Rover headed east as the sky faded to a pastel sunset.

  About a mile past the Dog River bridge, Sumner slowed at a small house. A wooden sign out front pronounced it Donny’s. With a name like that, I’d expected another casual restaurant much like Honey’s River Kitchen with its neon signs in the windows and crowds milling outside, not this charming cottage nestled in the trees. A wide porch on two sides offered outside seating, and tables inside were lit with candles.

  Sumner opened my door and held out his arm. He wore another white button-down shirt, open at the neck, well-fitting khaki pants, and brown Sperry boat shoes, the picture of coastal elegance. We fell into step together on the way to the front door. Around us, a tropical breeze swirled my dress around my thighs and lifted tendrils of hair around my face.

  Inside, the hostess showed us to a small table in the corner. Three candles sat in the center where wax dripped lazily down the sides and hardened in place at the bottom of the mercury glass holder. The window next to our table was raised, and the breeze made the flames jump and dart.

  “The name Donny’s doesn’t exactly sound Italian,” I said.

  “The owner is first-generation Italian. From Naples.”

  “Donny?”

  “Donatella Marchetti,” he said with a smile. “Donny for short.”

  “Ah. I see. And you know her well?”

  “Donny knows everyone well. She greets all her guests and she never forgets a name. Here she comes now.” He nodded over my shoulder.

  I turned to see a very small, very old woman walking toward us. Her gray hair was piled atop her head, and she wore a beautiful silk dress in a deep burnt orange. Her eyes crinkled as she leaned down and kissed Sumner on one cheek, then the other. “You haven’t been in to see me in a while.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sumner said. “I’ve been busy. Out of town a lot. And my daughter is getting married.”

  “Ah, bella. Please send her my love. She will always be the little one riding her bicycle on my front porch.”

  He laughed. “I’ll tell her that. She probably hasn’t ridden a bicycle in—well, at least not since she moved to New York.”

  As if just noticing he wasn’t alone, Donny glanced at me, then back at Sumner. She winked. “Another pretty lady.” Sumner’s smile faded and he shifted in his seat. Donny looked back at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to say.

  “Donny, this is Jessie. She’s—”

  “I’m doing the flowers for his daughter’s wedding.”

  I felt Sumner’s eyes on me, but I kept mine on Donny. She patted me on the shoulder. “Thank you for taking care of things for him. He needs all the help he can get.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about that, but I’m happy to help.”

  She shuffled away as another couple came through the door, ushering in a fresh warm breeze from outside.

  “That was awkward.” He gazed at me as if to measure my discomfort level.

  I shrugged and shook my head. “It’s fine. She seems sweet.”

  “She is. She’s deceptively sharp too. A quick mind in that little body.”

  “She seems to know you well. This must be where you bring all the girls.” I said it jokingly, but to my horror, it came out sounding petty. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean that. She just said the thing about the ladies . . .” Embarrassed, I took a sip of water to hide the heat blazing from my cheeks.

  He propped his elbows on the table and rubbed a hand across his forehead. “The last time I was here, I was with a woman,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was a few months ago. Donny obviously doesn’t forget anything.” He straightened when a waitress brought two glasses of red wine. “Oh, we haven’t—”

  “They’re on the house.” She pointed her chin across the room. Donny stood near the front door and winked at us.

  “While I’m here, let me tell you about our specials.” With hands clasped behind her back, the waitress rattled off an impressive list of seafood and pasta dishes. “Our desserts for this evening are fresh peach galette and chocolate bourbon bread pudding.”

  I moaned and Sumner laughed. “You must have a sweet tooth.”

  “A small one, yes. Bread pudding is my weakness.”

  He glanced up at the waitress. “We’ll take a minute on the menu, but go ahead and put us down for a bread pudding.”

  “No problem.”

  As the candle flickered and conversation around us dipped and swelled, I sipped my wine and skimmed the menu. The shrimp and angel hair pasta was my choice, as was the Caesar salad. Sumner ordered a steak.

  With the menus out of the way, nothing was between us except the candles and a few feet of rustic, gnarled oak. Everyone around us was relaxed. Wineglasses and forks clinked and laughter rippled from across the room, but my nerves returned. Thankfully he broke the silence.

  “When I was in college, I planted a flower bed in front of my house to impress a girl.”

  “Did it work?”

  He shook his head. “She had to cancel our date—she had a cold or something—and by the time we went out a couple weeks later, all the plants had died.”

  “All of them?”

  “Every single
one. Turned out the nursery where I’d bought them had unknowingly sold a bunch of plants infested with bugs in the roots. Some kind of weevil?”

  I nodded. “They’re a killer.”

  “Yes, they were. Another customer found them when he was planting the ones he’d bought and threatened to sue.”

  I laughed. “Oh no!”

  “Yep. I wasn’t quite that mad, but I was sure I would’ve gotten a second date with Elizabeth if my flower bed had survived. I didn’t know it yet, but she had quite a green thumb.”

  “So you must’ve gotten another date with her at some point.”

  “Oh yes.” He looked down at his lap for a moment, then back up at me. “I married her.”

  I widened my eyes. “Oh. Then you got more than just a second date.”

  “I got her for twenty-four years.” He took a drink of water. “She died eight years ago. Olivia was eighteen.”

  “Oh, Sumner.”

  He leaned back in his chair and fiddled with the edge of his white linen napkin. “It was really sudden—a blood clot that the doctors thought started somewhere in her leg. We were on vacation and she had some pain in her right leg, but we didn’t think much of it. She got up one night, to go to the bathroom, I assume . . . She was on the floor before I was even fully awake.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  He wrinkled his nose and glanced around the room. “It’s weird, it’s . . . different now. I still miss her, but I’m not as . . . gutted as I was back then.”

  Gutted. It was the same word I’d used to describe to a friend how I felt after learning about Chris’s infidelities. I was humiliated, angry, heartbroken—I was gutted. Yet this man across from me—the man with the fancy car, the enviable house, the Gregory Peck good looks—he was acquainted with a level of pain that far surpassed my own. In that respect, he and Mama were on equal footing. Two spouses, two sudden, shocking deaths. I still felt Daddy’s absence as a dull throb in my chest, but for Mama, I wondered if after all these years, his death was still sharp as a razor.