Glory Road Read online

  —WARREN ELLIOTT, THE SECRET LIFE OF FLOWERS

  JESSIE

  After a lot of discussion, some of it heated, it was decided: Mama, Evan, Harvis, and I would make the trip to Oak House Saturday around noon in two cars so they could leave before the wedding. Harvis would put the cover on the bed of his truck and transport the grapevine chandelier and all the flowers in buckets of water. My car would carry the twine-wrapped jars and bouquets for Olivia and her bridesmaids. The three of them would help me get set up, then Harvis would drive Evan and Mama back home. Everything had to be set up by four o’clock anyway for the photographer to begin taking photos, and by that time I expected Mama to be wiped out.

  She put up a stiff fight but finally gave in when I mentioned that the high Saturday afternoon was supposed to be ninety-seven degrees.

  “I reckon it wouldn’t do for an old lady to fall asleep in her plate of buttercream icing,” she said.

  I patted her hand. “No, it wouldn’t do at all. By the time the thermometer hits its peak, you can be back at home with a glass of iced tea and a rerun of The Gilmore Girls.”

  “Sounds like a perfect afternoon to me. I wonder if it’s too late to get Harvis hooked on Rory and Lorelai.”

  But before I could focus too much on the day of the wedding, I had the day before the wedding, which was now my spa day. Or at least spa afternoon. I spent part of the morning helping customers choose annuals that would help get their containers through the end-of-summer heat, and the rest of my time spreading the latest batch of Patsy and Loretta’s organic fertilizer in my flower beds and under the fruit trees. It was hot, smelly, dirty work, but I figured it would make me appreciate the pampering later in the day that much more.

  I left the shop in the care of Evan and Mama, telling them to close up early if customers were light. I popped over before I headed out. Evan sat behind the front counter, fiddling on the laptop, and Mama was spritzing our potted lilies and gerbera daisies with soda water. She said it would make them last longer.

  “What in the world are you going to do when word gets out about your little side venture of wedding flowers?” Mama asked. “As soon as photos of Miss Olivia’s wedding hit magazines with your name listed as the florist, people will start calling. Mark my words. You’ll need extra help around here.”

  “Hello?” Evan waved her hands around. “I’m right here. I can help. And check this out . . .” She turned the laptop toward me. “I’ve set up an Instagram account for the shop. It’ll help when someone Googles your name.”

  “We’re on Instagram?”

  “Yeah, I’ve already posted some photos, and look—you have likes!”

  She’d posted pictures of the shop itself—the overflowing window boxes and planters, the arbor covered in jasmine and wisteria, the potting shed with its blue shutters and weather-beaten cedar siding—along with photos of me wrapping twine around the mason jars and tucking peach-colored ranunculus into vases.

  “Evan, these are great. Thank you for doing this.”

  “No problem.” She turned back to the laptop, her face bright from the glow of the screen. She was focused.

  “You’re right. You’re a big help to me. And you can do even more, if you want. As long as it doesn’t take away from homework or studying. But Mama’s right too. Regardless of whether we get any extra business after the wedding—and I hope we do—I need to think about hiring someone else. Just part time for now. And maybe a driver too if there are more weddings.”

  “I know someone who may be interested.” Evan kept her eyes on the screen but ran her fingers through her hair. “He’s just . . . He’s someone from my art class. He said he was looking for an after-school job.”

  “Hmm.” I watched her, trying to ascertain what this “he” meant to her, if anything. “Is he nice?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Okay. Do you want to ask him about it? Maybe he could come by one day after school and I can talk to him.”

  “Sure.” She shrugged but couldn’t hide the small smile that nudged the edges of her mouth. She tucked her blonde hair behind her ears and hopped off the stool. “I need to go take some more photos for your page.”

  As soon as she was gone, Mama exhaled. “Good thing you won’t need to place a help-wanted ad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never know what kind of kooks answer those things. You could’ve brought the next Perry Strangler right here to Glory Road.”

  “I didn’t know we’ve ever had a Perry Strangler.”

  “Well, we haven’t. But you never know. At least Evan knows this boy. That tells us something about him.” She was quiet a moment. “She’s changed this summer. Grown up.”

  I took a deep breath. Any insinuation that she was growing up, growing away, made my heart hurt. But it was true, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  Bliss Day Spa was in downtown Mobile, tucked into a towering old antebellum home on Government Street. When I arrived and gave the woman at the front desk my name, she ushered me into a room at the back of the house. Sunlight flooded in from a wall of south-facing windows, and deep chairs and love seats lined the walls. Magazines and gleaming coffee table books filled baskets next to each chair.

  The woman held out her hand and gestured for me to choose a seat. When I was settled, she handed me a glass of water with cucumber slices, then slipped out. I leaned my head back and silently thanked Sumner again for this long-overdue treat.

  A few minutes later, the front door opened and a flurry of female voices—all talking at once—swelled in the old house.

  “This must be the bridal party,” the woman said, setting off a round of squeals and laughter. When they burst into the room a moment later, I stood to greet them. Olivia and I hadn’t officially met each other yet, but it was obvious which one she was. She had Sumner’s dark eyes and high cheekbones. She was even lovelier in person than in the photos I’d seen at Sumner’s house.

  “Jessie?” She raised her eyebrows when she saw me. When I nodded, she hugged me and turned to the huddle of beautiful young women behind her. “This is the woman responsible for making everything at Dad’s house completely gorgeous for the wedding.” She squeezed my arm. “I’m so glad you’re here. And I’m sorry lunch didn’t work out a few days ago.”

  “It’s fine. You have a lot of people who want to catch up with you while you’re here.”

  We’d made a loose plan to meet for lunch the day after she got into town, but an impromptu day trip to Orange Beach with friends nixed our plans.

  “My dad can’t stop talking about you. He’s so excited about showing you off to all his friends tomorrow. I think he may be more excited about you than he is about me getting married!”

  “Olivia.” Her friend shushed her. “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, I’m kidding, though it’s true he has a thing for Jessie. But no, I know he’s happy about me and Jared. My biggest worry is that he’ll blubber his way down the aisle.”

  She laughed and we laughed along with her, but something in me felt off balance, like I’d gotten my toe hung under the edge of a carpet and tripped. “He’s so excited about showing you off to all his friends.”

  A troop of women in white aprons filed into the room then and pulled up stools in front of each of us. For the next two hours, our arms, legs, and feet were covered in warm paraffin wax, oiled, massaged, and lotioned. Our nails were soaked, filed, buffed, and polished.

  At some point Olivia’s loudest and most outspoken and boisterous friend, Bridget, popped open the bottle of champagne and poured a flute for each of us except Olivia. For her, she poured a full glass.

  “It’s your wedding weekend,” Bridget said with authority. “It’s our job to make sure you have fun. Starting with two glasses of champagne.”

  While my toes soaked in a mini hot tub in front of my chair, I sipped my flute of champagne, savoring the fizzy bubbles and the sharp, crisp flavor of raspberries. Bridget circled the room
refilling glasses and admiring everyone’s nails. When she got to me, I shook my head and put my hand over the top of my flute. “I’m good.”

  She shrugged and waddled to the next girl, her pink-polished toes spread out with thick cotton pads.

  Olivia downed her first glass with alarming speed, then started on her second.

  “Who’s driving y’all out of here?” I asked the girl next to me.

  “Oh, we’re Ubering. Not to worry.” She tapped on her phone with still-wet nails. “The driver is picking us up at four thirty.”

  I tried to remember a time when I was this breezy and free. Olivia had said her bridesmaids were all roughly the same age as her. Twenty-six. When I was twenty-six, I had a one-year-old and was simultaneously trying to childproof our house and keep happy a husband who was becoming increasingly bored with me.

  I inhaled and sank farther into the downy pillows at my back. Almost ten years had passed since I’d left Chris, and I was still grateful I was no longer faking my way through life.

  As the girls talked about someone who was stood up and someone else’s second chance, I closed my eyes. I tuned them out until the voices grew louder. I peeked an eye open.

  “I mean, it’s crazy, right?” Olivia’s friend Madeleine asked. “To think you’re picking a person—a partner—for the rest of your life. How in the world do you know?”

  Despite the fact that Olivia was the one getting married—the one who’d most recently chosen her life partner—they all swiveled their heads toward me.

  “Um . . .” I laughed.

  “You’re married, right?” Madeleine asked. “How’d you choose?”

  “I think it’s important to note that I was married.” I held up my left hand and wiggled my bare ring finger. “I’m not anymore. I may not be the best person to ask about choosing husbands.”

  “But you must’ve been sure at one point, right? I mean, you chose to marry that guy over all the others. How do you know who to pick?”

  “I think . . .” I spoke slowly, trying to gather my thoughts along with the right words. “I think you marry the one who, when everything else is stripped away—money, job, arguments, disagreements—he’s still the one you’d want to sit with on the porch and . . . just . . . do nothing. Or do anything.” I looked down at my fingers spread out on top of the rolling cart next to me, each nail painted a smooth, glossy mother-of-pearl. Not a speck of dirt in sight. “Pick the one who matters more than all the stuff of life.”

  The room was silent and my mind tipped like a jar slowly pushed onto its side, making everything inside shift and shuffle.

  Then out of the stillness came Bridget’s loud voice. “Why in the world would you want to take away the stuff? That’s the fun part.”

  Peals of laughter pierced the room. “Bridget, you’re terrible!” they said, their voices once again cheerful and animated. But my mind was still on that front porch, welcoming the silence, the contentment, the exquisite pleasure of a quiet, love-filled life.

  CHAPTER 36

  Anytime you move a plant, you break roots, which takes away from the plant’s ability to thrive. If you decide you need to move your plant, make sure to provide adequate moisture in the new location. Stick to a regular watering pattern until you see new growth.

  —GRACIE BROOKS, PROPER GROWING CONDITIONS FOR GARDENING SUCCESS

  JESSIE

  The day of the wedding we made it to Dog River with minimal problems. The only hiccup was when a box holding the twigs and greenery tipped over after a quick stop at a red light, dumping water into the back seat of my 4Runner.

  Oak House was quiet when we arrived. I knew Sumner was eating lunch with Jared and his dad while Olivia had brunch with her bridesmaids. I wondered about Olivia, celebrating her wedding without her mom there. I couldn’t imagine having gotten married without Mama there to bustle around, making sure every detail was taken care of. More importantly, she’d been a touchstone, a spot of reality in a day that felt otherwise trimmed in white chiffon and wispy dreams.

  We parked under the magnolia and unloaded everything. While Mama and Evan set out the glass jars along the dock—I wouldn’t place the candles in them until just before the ceremony so they wouldn’t melt in the heat—Harvis and I toted the chandelier down the dock to the boathouse. He’d packed every tool possible—screwdrivers, a variety of nails, hammers, wrenches, filament string, zip ties, even a huge blue plastic tarp, though I couldn’t imagine what purpose he thought it might serve at a wedding.

  His foresight allowed us to make quick work of hanging the wreath. A breeze lifted off the river, carrying the scent of pine and briny water. All around, birds sang and fish jumped and slapped back into the water. Aside from the blazing heat, it was a brilliant day for a wedding.

  When the chandelier was in place, hung from the clear filament string with jars of tea-light candles suspended beneath, Harvis set off to find Mama. I hung the remaining greenery and blossoms along the railings and at the end of each row of chairs already set up for the ceremony. Only twenty chairs—enough for the closest family and friends. And me, though I wasn’t sure I qualified as either. The other guests would be waiting in the yard to greet the happy couple for the reception.

  I found Harvis, Mama, and Evan on Sumner’s porch, two ceiling fans whirling on high. When I’d last seen his house, it had looked impressive, but now—cleaned, shined, and spruced for the wedding—it positively glowed.

  “Mm, mm, mm.” Mama shook her head and ran her hands up and down the polished arms of the antique chaise she sat on. “He has some mighty fine taste.”

  Harvis took off his cap and scratched his head. “Think so? Little uppity for my blood.”

  Mama sniffed. “Maybe. Though I could do with seeing this view every day.”

  He grunted. “The water’s nice.”

  The sound of cars and then happy voices traveled to us from the driveway. I heard Olivia’s bridesmaids—or more accurately, I heard Bridget—then Sumner’s own laughter.

  Harvis checked his watch. “Three o’clock. Just about time for our exit.”

  They stood and I hugged them. “Thank you for the help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Sure you could,” Mama said. “You, my dear, can do anything.”

  With the departure of my little family—at some point this summer I’d begun to think of Harvis as family too—and the arrival of the wedding party, activity around Oak House kicked into high gear. Olivia had said she wanted things loose and natural for her wedding, and while we accomplished that with the flowers, everything else was as elegant and top-notch as anything I’d seen.

  The caterers arrived with silver dome-covered trays, plates of appetizers, carving boards, crystal stemware, and boxes of French wine and champagne. The pastry chef and a small army of helpers unloaded eight layers of round cake, which they then carefully stacked on top of each other and covered with white buttercream, piped rosettes, and beading that mimicked the train on Olivia’s dress.

  The band—a ragtag group of guys toting speakers, a drum set, and a couple of guitars—set up under the oak tree and ran through a few short songs, then disappeared. When they returned, they wore crisp three-piece suits. The wedding planner—thankfully Olivia had hired a real one to coordinate the day—bustled around with a couple of assistants, making sure everything was in just the right spot.

  With the aid of a makeup artist and a team of hairstylists, the bridal party and Olivia were getting ready in the cottage next door. While I finished the last of the arrangements and set them out in their silver pots and vases, the trio of photographers began snapping early photos, testing the light and choosing their lenses.

  I finally saw Sumner at five o’clock, just as I tucked the last stem of hypericum into an arrangement for the cake table. He came up behind me and gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze. He smelled like fried seafood and a little bourbon. “Everything going okay? The flowers are beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I think I�
�m finished. There’s nothing left except lighting the candles. I won’t do that until just before seven.” His hair was windblown and his cheeks pink. “Everything okay with you?”

  “Oh yes.” He glanced down at his casual clothes—khaki pants, checked button-down rolled up to his elbows, and Top-Siders. A spill of something red had left a small splotch on his shirt. I reached out and touched it.

  He tried to rub it away. “I know. I have some cleaning up to do. I took Jared and his dad to the Grand Mariner for a late lunch. We ate a little bit of everything and there was a lot of cocktail sauce.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “And bourbon in the afternoon?”

  He laughed. “Just a little. It’s not every day my daughter gets married.”

  I gathered my scissors and florist wire. “I know you have a house full of people. Any chance there’s a shower open?”

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Inside was indeed full of people. The wedding party sat on chairs in the living room, many of them focused on the football game on TV. The wedding planner was working on a stain on the front of a groomsman’s shirt. On my way out the front door to grab my things from the car, I passed Bridget.

  “Where’s Olivia?” I asked her.

  “Next door, finishing up her hair. If you see her, tell her she’s a wimp for giving up on her single life.” The other girls laughed, and one threw a balled-up napkin at her.

  I retrieved my bag and dress, then followed Sumner up the stairs. When we passed another bridesmaid coming down the stairs in a fog of hair spray mist and floral perfume, I touched her on the arm. “See if you can sneak Bridget’s glass away from her. Whatever it is, replace it with Coke.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she was gone, I groaned. “‘Yes, ma’am’? Do they really think I’m that old?”

  Sumner smiled and led me down the upstairs hallway. “May I remind you, you called me Mr. Tate when you first met me.”