Glory Road Page 5

  —KAYE BUCKLEY, PEPPER PLANTS FOR LIFE AND LOVE

  GUS

  Ninety-five percent of the time, when two people get married, it’s easy to tell which one married up. For Tom and me, we both married up. It’s rare, I know, but that’s just how it happened.

  My sweet Tom was not the handsomest or most refined man to walk the streets of Perry. His ears were a little too big, his eyes too narrow, his hair a little thin on top. He was lanky as a coat hanger and had a bad habit of stuffing used Kleenexes in the pockets of his Carhartts, which left me picking bits of white fluff out of the dryer vent for weeks. He took a job working at his daddy’s lumber mill after high school and eventually made a solid career there, though he started off shoving wood chips into piles with a push broom.

  But oh, he was kind and he loved me so well. I was a spitfire. Thought I knew all there was to know about men and women, the ways of the world, and how to get exactly what I wanted. But the day eighteen-year-old Tom McBride threw a foul ball that bounced up and broke my cheekbone, I realized I didn’t actually know much of anything. All my flirting and sassing and batting my eyelashes amounted to nothing in the face of this man who gently held my hand the entire five hours I spent in the emergency room. He hardly let go of that hand for the next thirty-seven years, until he fell off our ladder while cleaning hickory leaves out of the clogged gutter.

  So we both married up. I added some color to his world—showed him there was more to life than just blue-collared work shirts and chores around the house. I signed us up for dance lessons and we learned the cha-cha, the Charleston, and the Carolina shag. We dressed up and went out to nice dinners once a month and occasionally saw a movie at the theater in Mobile. I liked to think he appreciated me opening his eyes to a wider world.

  And one of the things I appreciated most about Tom was that he slowed me down. He’d take my hand and lead me to the front porch swing to listen to a thunderstorm as it rolled by. Turn off the lamps and light a candle so we could talk, long and slow, into the night. Tell a ridiculous joke about two preachers walking into a bar, but tell it in such a way that tears rolled down my cheeks and my heart just about caved in my chest at my luck in marrying that good, sweet, honest man.

  Jessie grew up seeing the love between Tom and me. It wasn’t always perfect—we had our fair share of fights, mainly because my selfishness would butt up against his calm benevolence and it annoyed the stew out of me—but it was real. And I knew Jessie wanted that for herself. You can’t blame a girl for wanting love and passion in her life when she grew up with a father who adored his wife, day in and day out. Who wouldn’t want that kind of love? She just went about it the wrong way.

  But I learned early on that a mother can’t change her daughter’s ways by forcing her. Or by telling her she’s wrong, though Lord have mercy, I wanted to so often. By nature, my Jessie was not the cheerleader type, but that’s who the boys in Perry wanted, so that was the identity she took on. She lightened her hair, could have bought stock in that sticky pink lip gloss all the girls wore, and hiked her cheerleading shirt up as high as she could and still get out the door under Tom’s watchful eye. She became the “popular girl,” though deep down, I think even she knew it didn’t fit.

  Truth be told, I always thought Ben Bradley was more her speed. He was quiet, smart, not your average football player. He was also humble, which I appreciated. He and Jessie spent many after-school hours together, and I saw how he looked at her. Dare I say, it verged on adoration. She said they were just friends, but I had my doubts. I kept waiting for her to come home one day and let it slip that she and Ben were an item, but it never happened. Next thing I knew, Jessie left for college, then she met Chris. Then rumor spread that Ben had gotten a girl pregnant, and that was that.

  It wasn’t until she moved back home that I took in my first full breath of air since Tom died. In the six years I’d been on my own, I’d forged ahead, working at Kim’s Café downtown to help supplement Tom’s life insurance and pension, but the years were empty. Jessie didn’t completely fill the void he left behind—no one could—but I no longer felt as lonely, and the three of us started a new life together.

  Seeing Jessie sitting alone on the top step tonight made me wonder if we were on the verge of something new yet again. Something swift and unexpected.

  Then again, my mind had been doing strange things as of late, so who was I to talk of things we never saw coming?

  CHAPTER 7

  Novice gardeners—especially those intent on impressing the neighbors—tend to buy fancy, overpriced fertilizer to give their plants a boost. But just as you shouldn’t oversalt your food, beware of introducing a fertilizer that’s too rich for your plants. All you need is a good dose of kitchen scraps and lawn clippings. If you have a healthy horse or cow around, all the better.

  —ANNA-LEE COLE, GROWING THE GARDEN YOU WANT

  JESSIE

  I was out past the back gate when I heard a car coming down our road. The low roar filtered through the trees and around houses, finally winding its way to me. I paused and closed my eyes, listening for the telltale deceleration, which would mean I had a customer. When I heard it, I pulled my hands out of the potted azalea and stood. With one last glance behind me at the forlorn azalea, now sitting crooked in its pot, I turned toward the shop.

  Inside, I expected to see Mama at the front desk, but instead, through the front window, I spotted her dozing on the glider. On my way to the door, a slight movement caught my attention. I stopped and retraced my steps backward. Elma Dean lurked in the corner behind a spinner rack of seeds, one hand behind her back.

  “Afternoon, Elma.”

  “Gus said I could take a pack of morning glory seeds,” she blurted.

  “I’m sure she did.” I stuck my head out the front door and peeked around to the glider. “Mama, it’s not even lunchtime. Wake up.”

  Her head jerked up at the sound of my voice. “What? I’m awake.”

  “Right.” I waited a moment to be sure she wouldn’t nod off again, then ducked back inside to wash the soil from my hands. I heard the car pull to a stop out front as I dried my hands and grabbed a bottle of water from the small cooler we kept at the back of the shop. After taking a long sip, I capped the bottle and made my way back to the porch.

  I’d expected the customer to be someone I knew—likely someone from the road—but the man who climbed out of the sleek black Land Rover was unfamiliar. He was older than me, in his fifties, maybe. Close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and tanned skin, as if he spent a decent amount of time out in the sun and open air.

  Mama whistled low. “Think he’s lost?”

  “I know it’s supposed to be there,” the man said into his cell, which he’d clamped between his ear and shoulder, his deep voice tight and controlled, “but it’s not, is it? It’s not my . . . I can’t do anything about it right now, I’m . . . in a meeting. I’ll deal with this when I get back.” He punched a button on his phone and dropped it in his pocket before slamming the car door closed and turning to face us on the porch.

  “I’m looking for Gus,” he called out, then climbed the steps. “The one with the cobbler?” He swung his gaze back and forth between Mama and me as if trying to decide who was who.

  “That’d be me.” Mama stood from the glider. “I’m Gus McBride. I have fresh peach and a bit of yesterday’s blueberry left over. Care for a slice?”

  “That’d be wonderful. I’ll take blueberry.”

  “Mm-hmm.” She studied him a moment, then turned. From inside she called out, “You’ll take peach. Trust me.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it.

  “Can I help you find anything?” He didn’t come across as someone who’d know his way around a flower nursery.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I just left a meeting and was thinking about how hungry I was, then I saw your sign out there.” He held up his hands as if to say, “Here I am.”

  Mama appeared behind me with a slice of peach co
bbler, a dollop of vanilla ice cream right on top. “Can I get you some iced tea to go with it?” She stood a hair too close to the man, then brushed a speck of something off his shoulder.

  Blood rushed to my cheeks, but he took it in stride. “No, ma’am, this will do just fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She stood there long enough that I spoke up between clenched teeth. “Could you please go check on Elma?” I whispered. “Make sure she’s not robbing me blind.”

  “I can tell when I’m not wanted,” she whispered back, one eyebrow cocked, but she turned and scooted inside.

  He took a bite and closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke. “This is heaven.”

  I nodded. “It may not be world famous, but it’s the best in Perry. Don’t tell her I said that.”

  He laughed, and a little of his seriousness leaked away. “I think this is the best peach cobbler I’ve ever had.” He scraped his spoon around the edge of the plate, slid the ice cream into his mouth, then gestured through the open front door with his spoon. “Mind if I look around?”

  I held up my hands. “Be my guest. Let me know if you need any help.”

  As he wound around the display tables inside, I knelt and began pinching off spent blooms in an urn filled with petunias. I glanced inside at him as I worked.

  He paused by the round oak table where I displayed small bouquets of flowers and greenery. He reached out and touched a fern frond tucked into a handful of pale-yellow buttercups, then pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the bouquet. Mama came up behind him and offered to take his plate.

  “Oh, thank you.” He dropped his phone back in his pocket. “If it’s not world famous, it should be.”

  “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” Mama said, her voice like syrup.

  He took one last look at the bouquets, then walked back out onto the porch, stopping in the middle of a patch of sunshine. “You don’t by any chance do flowers for weddings, do you?”

  “Weddings?” I turned my head and spoke over my shoulder. “No. Sorry, I don’t.”

  “Funny you should mention weddings,” Mama called from inside the shop. “I’ve been telling her the wedding flower business is booming.”

  “Thank you, Mama,” I called as I stood. I tossed the handful of wilted blooms in the trash can by the door and brushed my hands off on my shorts. Pinching back petunias always left a sticky residue on my fingertips. “I’m not a florist,” I said to him.

  “Hmm. That’s a shame.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, my daughter’s getting married, and I think she wants something a little more”—he spread his arms out, taking in the shop, the trees, the land, and Mama and me in one swoop—“natural. She says she wants something Southern but not glitzy Southern. Whatever that means.”

  I smiled. “I’m not—”

  “Do you mind if I sit a minute?” He gestured to the glider behind me. “I’ve been outside all morning and I’m roasting in these clothes.”

  “Oh, of course.” I moved aside and sat in an adjacent rocking chair. I wondered what line of work he was in to have a meeting outside in the heat while wearing a suit.

  “Forgive me.” He stuck his hand out to me. “I’m Sumner Tate.”

  I tilted my head and studied him. His name sounded vaguely familiar, but at the moment I couldn’t think of where I’d heard it. He raised his eyebrows, his hand still outstretched.

  “I’m sorry. Jessie McBride.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jessie.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, wrinkling his knife-pressed slacks. “The wedding is in less than three months. Olivia, my daughter, sprang it on me just a few weeks ago. She wants everything to be perfect even though, in my mind, this is not much time to plan a perfect wedding.”

  I laughed. “No, it’s definitely not.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a sigh. “She keeps saying, ‘It’ll all be fine, Dad.’ I don’t think we’re even in the realm of fine, but she knows what she wants. Starting with a wedding at my house Labor Day weekend.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “Do you have kids?”

  “One. A daughter. But nowhere near old enough to get married.”

  “I feel the same about Olivia, but she’s not as young as I think. Twenty-five.”

  “Evan’s fourteen.”

  “Ah. A teenager. Is she a good one?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe . . . 97 percent of the time.”

  He laughed. The cool, intimidating presence he’d gotten out of the car with had backed down, and a comfortable ease took its place.

  I checked my watch. Mr. Rainwater had called earlier, saying he needed to bring something around for Mama. I thought of him pulling his fragrant truck up alongside Sumner Tate’s spotless, and decidedly unsmelly, Land Rover.

  “Mr. Tate—”

  “Oh, please. It’s Sumner. I’m not that much older than you.” His smile dimpled his cheek and crinkled his eyes. In the shop behind us, Mama puttered around, and I could just barely make out her humming Johnny and June’s “It Ain’t Me Babe.”

  I stood quickly, sending my rocking chair swaying back and forth. I grabbed the armrest to slow it. “Sumner, I’m not really . . . set up to do weddings.”

  “Okay. I get that. This is more of a nursery than a florist. But those arrangements inside?” He pointed through the window behind us to the table of bouquets—tussie-mussies in the loosest sense of the word.

  They were extraordinarily simple. I bundled zinnias, poppies, sunflowers—whatever was blooming at the moment—along with a few daisies, ferns, or stems of goldenrod to lighten them up and then tied them all together with burlap and twine. Each one was different, and my customers loved them. In fact, they complained whenever I didn’t have time to make them.

  “Those already look like wedding bouquets,” he said.

  “Oh, those are just little nothings. They’re not wedding material.”

  “I don’t know. I think they’re kind of nice. Olivia said she’d rather use someone off the beaten path than a traditional florist. Something about some barn wedding she saw on Pinterest? I don’t know.”

  “I’m definitely off the beaten path, but I’m kind of a one-woman show here, and florists usually have several people working on events. My mom and daughter help out some, but it’s mostly me.” I shrugged. “We just don’t have the time or staff to pull off a wedding.”

  Now, the money a wedding would bring in—I couldn’t deny the allure of that. But surely it’d be too big a commitment for my small flower shop, right? Had Big Earl and his green thumb gotten into the wedding-flower business? Come to think of it, he’d probably already figured out how to do a BOGO deal on bridal bouquets.

  “I see. So I guess you stay pretty busy around here.”

  “Well, today’s pretty calm. But we do have busy times.” I didn’t mention that business in the summer tended to be slower since many of my customers were older than Mama and didn’t like to be out in the heat.

  As Sumner gazed out on our dirt parking lot—empty except for his car and Elma Dean’s tiny Civic—a raucous serenade of cicadas swelled in the trees, then stopped as soon as it began. A hawk circling way up over the pines called out, high and lonesome. All of it seemed to put an exclamation point on our extreme non-busyness. In the still, quiet air, Mama’s humming in the background reached a crescendo. She stopped and cleared her throat, then began again, this time in a lower octave.

  “I guess that’s your answer then.” He stood and gestured toward the bouquets. “I’ll take one of those home with me, if you don’t mind. I owe you a purchase anyway since I’ve already enjoyed the cobbler and ice cream.”

  “Oh, it’s fine, you don’t have to . . .”

  He shrugged. “How much are they?”

  “Six dollars.”

  “I’ll take two.”

  I plucked the two biggest ones out of their jars and walked to the back to grab a damp paper towel
and a sheet of newspaper to wrap around the ends of the stems. When I handed them over, he reached out with a credit card. “Oh, I’m sorry. We’re cash only right now. It’s a problem with the computer . . .” I waved my hand toward the counter where the culprit sat. This man probably never had computer problems. Or if he did, he had “people” to fix them promptly.

  “No problem.” He fished around in his wallet—slim, shiny leather, a flash of small silver initials on the front—and handed me the cash. As he took the flowers from me, he passed me a business card. “If you change your mind about the wedding, give me a call.”

  “I will.”

  He smiled, his lips curling inward into a thin line. His cheek dimpled again. Then he started down the steps, pausing at the bottom. “I’m sorry about the phone earlier.” He waved his hand toward his car. Heat radiated off the hood in waves. “The call was frustrating, and it got the best of me. I hope I didn’t give you a bad impression.”

  “Oh no. I didn’t think anything bad at all.”

  “Good.” He opened his car door but stopped before he climbed in. “Olivia didn’t seem to like any of the florists she called, but to be honest, I think she’s being a little picky. I could probably find one who’d jump on board today, but something tells me she’d really like you.” He glanced around, then back at me. “I hope you’ll reconsider.” He sat down, then closed the door behind him.

  As he eased down the driveway, Mama appeared behind me, just as I knew she would.

  “Well, if he isn’t a tall drink of cool water.” She took a deep breath and blew it out, stirring the hair falling out of my messy bun. “Come on up for lunch when you’ve recovered. Harvis is supposed to bring me some catfish. It remains to be seen if he’ll come through. If he does, I suppose I’ll have to ask him to stay and eat.”

  I heard Mama’s words as if through a thick wall—audible but barely. I ran my thumb over the raised letters on his business card. His Land Rover was stopped at the end of the driveway, sun and shade dappling the windows. He stuck his arm out the window and waved, then pulled out onto the dirt road.