Glory Road Read online

  “It’s just the three of us, but we do okay too.” I led him down the steps, across the courtyard, and into the greenhouse. Through the open door in the back, I could see Gus and Mr. Rainwater standing by the plastic pool. “My mom can cook fine, but my grandmother Gus makes all the good stuff. Fried chicken, cornbread, fried green tomatoes . . .”

  “Remind me to swing by at dinner next time.” He leaned over to inspect a row of perfect orchids planted in ceramic pots, their stalks tied to thin metal stakes.

  “She also makes the best desserts in town.”

  “Really?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was interested or not, but I was nervous and when that happened, I couldn’t shut off my mouth.

  “Yep. She likes to think her desserts make more money than the plants Mom sells. We let her think it. It keeps her happy.”

  Nick laughed and looked around the greenhouse. “Man, y’all have everything in here. From the front, it comes across as a little back-road nursery. This is the real deal.”

  I nodded. I was proud of Mom and her hard work. Then her expression when Mr. Bradley appeared on the back porch bubbled back to me.

  I was dying to ask Nick about everything—about him, his dad, why in the world they moved to Perry of all places, and exactly what kind of connection did our parents have?—but I didn’t want to hammer him with too many questions.

  “So, uh, did you know your dad and my mom knew each other?”

  He paused at the small water fountain on a table in the corner where water trickled over rocks into a small pool at the bottom. A tiny statue of St. Francis of Assisi stood in the shallow water, his arms held out as a perch for birds. Nick stuck his finger in a trail of water sliding down the rocks. “Yeah, he said they knew each other when they were younger. Dad grew up here.”

  “Here, as in Perry?”

  “Here, as in right down the road.”

  “Huh.” I’d heard stories of lots of my mom’s childhood friends. I’d never heard of him.

  “So which of these tomatoes are right for Dad?”

  “That’s sweet potato vine. Vegetables are over here.”

  I led him to the wooden tables where we kept potted tomatoes, bell peppers, and squashes. I was still telling him about the tomato’s sun and water requirements when Mr. Bradley called Nick from the back porch of the shop.

  “We gotta run, bud.”

  I could just barely make out his shape through the thick plastic wall of the greenhouse. He stood there a moment gazing out on the garden and field beyond. When he ducked back inside, he held the screen door so it wouldn’t slam shut.

  “I think you’ve got me set for a while here.” Nick held a pallet with three tomato plants, cucumber, basil, and cabbage. Packets of zucchini, green beans, and sweet peppers were stuffed into his back pocket. On one arm he’d coiled a length of plastic netting to use as a cage for the tomatoes.

  “For the hungry critters?” he asked.

  “Birds, squirrels, rabbits. Once you get all this planted, they’ll come out in droves. We also have deer that come out now and again. They love all this stuff.”

  He surveyed the stash in his arms. “We’re never going to be able to get this up and running alone. Dad may need some—”

  “Nick?” his dad called again. “Let’s go and let these people close for the day.”

  Nick sighed. “Okay, second call. That’s my cue.”

  I walked with him out of the greenhouse and back up the steps into the shop. On the way I reevaluated everything I’d said to Nick. This was the guy with the voice, the music, that dark hair, and all I’d talked about was garden pests, appropriate containers, and proper watering techniques.

  But it was easier to talk about what I knew than focusing on the slippery feeling in my stomach.

  Inside the shop Mom stood by the front window. Her lips were moving, but I couldn’t tell if she was talking to Mr. Bradley or herself.

  He stood a few paces away, staring out the window, the laptop tucked under his arm. They both turned when our feet hit the old wood floor.

  “Wow,” Mr. Bradley said. “That’s . . . that’s a lot.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.

  “Yep, she loaded me down,” Nick said. “Ask me anything—how much water they need, shade, sun, rabbits. I’ve got it all up here.” He lifted a knee to hold the pallet, then took one hand off and tapped his forehead. When the pallet tipped precariously, he quickly grabbed it again.

  “Okay, just don’t drop it. Let’s at least get the plants in the ground before we kill them.” He turned to Mom. “What do we owe you?”

  Mom hesitated, then stepped toward Nick to check labels and count seed packets. As she pulled her calculator from her front apron pocket, the screen door creaked open and Mr. Rainwater and Gus appeared behind us.

  “Don’t mind us,” Gus said. “We’re just going to wash off our hands real quick.” She pointed Mr. Rainwater to the deep sink just inside the back door. Mom usually used it for rinsing dirt off flower stems before she arranged them in vases, not for washing Mr. Rainwater’s “fertilizer” down the drain.

  “Mama,” Mom said, her voice low. “The hose outside would be a much better place to rinse your hands than the inside sink.”

  “That’s what I said,” Mr. Rainwater piped up.

  “Well, we needed a drink too, so we came on in.” Gus turned her head back to the sink and motioned for Mr. Rainwater to bring his hands closer to the faucet. The old man looked back and forth between Gus and Mom, unsure of what to do. Finally, he stuck his hands under the running water. “Augusta, you need to think about being more considerate.”

  “I’m always considerate. Now hush and let’s wash up.”

  Mom rolled her eyes and turned back to Mr. Bradley, who struggled to keep a straight face. She gave him the total for the plants and he handed over the cash, then they walked toward the front door. Nick and I followed behind them.

  “You’ve done well here on your own. I’m happy to see that.” Mr. Bradley’s voice was quiet.

  “Thanks,” Mom said. “It’s not just me though. I have Evan and Mama . . . We’re doing just fine.”

  “I can tell.”

  Mom smiled, but it was too bright. Something was off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I glanced at Nick, but he was focused on the floor in front of him. He stepped carefully down each step, peering around the side of the pallet in his arms.

  “If you have any trouble, just give us a call,” Mom said. “One of us can run down and check things out. Make sure you haven’t planted the tomatoes next to the peppers.”

  Mr. Bradley stopped halfway to his Jeep. “Wait, is that a bad thing?”

  Mom gave a little smile, which was really more of an eye squint than anything else. “You’ll figure it out.”

  He hung his head, then opened the liftgate before getting behind the wheel and cranking the engine. Nick slid the pallet into the back of the Jeep and slammed the hatch door. He waved at me before he climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.

  I waited until their car turned onto the street, then started to ask Mom . . . I didn’t even know. Something. Anything. But by the time I turned to her, all I saw was the screen door closing with a quiet thud.

  CHAPTER 9

  In gardening, how you begin sets the tone of the entire life cycle of the plant. Start on shaky ground—the wrong light, soil, or terrain—and your plant’s life will likely be cut short. On the other hand, ensuring correct conditions at the beginning of the life cycle and encouraging companion plants to play well together will help make your gardening experience a success.

  —GRACIE BROOKS, PROPER GROWING CONDITIONS FOR GARDENING SUCCESS

  JESSIE

  Evan’s friend Ruth came over late that afternoon, and Evan asked if she could stay for dinner. Once the four of us were seated around the table, we passed around a big white platter of pork chops. A pot of butter beans sat on a hot pad in the center of the table next to a green s
alad with cherry tomatoes from out back.

  Ruth cut off a dainty bite of her pork chop and raised it to her mouth. “Mmm.” She chewed methodically and swallowed before speaking. “This is delicious. My mom only makes plain chicken. Usually with rice and green peas.”

  Mama patted Ruth’s hand. “Sweetheart, you come eat dinner with us anytime you want. We’ll put some meat on your bones.”

  Ruth smiled, happy to be part of it all.

  “I usually have dessert here too. I wanted to make a pound cake today, but I couldn’t find my recipe.”

  I looked up at Mama. “Recipe? For pound cake? You could make that in your sleep.”

  “I know, I know.” She pushed her food around the plate with her fork. “I got everything out to make it but then couldn’t remember if I had it all together right. It was like I left my brain at home this morning.” She laughed and took a sip of her water.

  “You feeling okay?” I asked quietly. Evan and Ruth were already on to another subject, something about someone they’d run into at the Icebox. “You’ve been a little . . . forgetful lately.”

  “What else have I forgotten?” She smiled, but it was tighter than usual. “You worried I’m leaving my iron on or something? I don’t wear much that requires the use of an iron.”

  “I don’t know.” Talking about Mama’s increasing forgetfulness made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like the feeling of the parent-child roles reversing, even if for just a moment. “You told me about Elma Dean coming into the shop when I’d been there to see her.”

  “It’s just part of getting older. You’ll know soon enough. Nothing a round of crosswords or Sudoku can’t fix.” With one hand she reached into her massive bag that dangled from the back of her chair and fumbled around for something. “Now, what do you say we talk about the visitor you had today?”

  “Ben?” I glanced at Evan. She met my eyes as Ruth chatted on about her older sister’s new secret crush. I’d explain Ben to her, but I wasn’t ready to go there just yet. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to want to talk about it either. At least not in front of Mama and Ruth.

  “No, the other visitor. The one in that fancy black car. Ah, there it is.” Mama pulled a magazine out of her bag, slapped it down on the table in front of me, and pointed at the front cover. “Mr. Moneybags himself.”

  Under the Southern Living logo was a photo of a majestic oak overlooking a river, Spanish moss swaying from the low branches, the sun setting in the background, sky a mess of pink and purple. “Good grief. Did they Photoshop that scene? It’s gorgeous.”

  “Not Photoshopped. Straight out of the backyard of one Sumner Tate.”

  “What?” I scanned the page again. A caption to the side of the photo read, “Take a peek inside Oak House, one of the South’s finest homes.”

  “He lives in Oak House?”

  “What’s that?” Evan peered over my arm. “Wow, that’s so pretty.”

  I nodded. “Oak House is . . . Well, it’s kind of well known.”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Mama said. “It’s a gorgeous spread out on Dog River. Seems every month it’s featured in one magazine or another. They have events there all the time. Fund-raisers. Parties. Weddings.”

  I sighed. “Here we go again.”

  “I think you should try it. Twig needs the money. You need the money. It won’t be that much work and you’ll have plenty of extra help.”

  I knew we could use the money, but something about the man made me nervous, and in a different way than Ben made me nervous, which was considerable. Sumner was so polished and sophisticated, so out of place standing on Twig’s front porch, listening to the sounds of Glory Road, sitting in the ancient rocking chair that probably left tiny pieces of peeling white paint stuck to his crisp pants.

  I flipped through the magazine until I found the article on Oak House.

  Sumner Tate, founder of the prestigious golf course design group Tate & Lane, moved into the charming but small Stinson-McDavid cottage on Dog River eight years ago. After a careful and tasteful two-year renovation, Oak House is a classic example of low-country style and down-home river house appeal . . .

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “What’s your agenda? Why do you want me to do his daughter’s wedding so badly?”

  “I don’t give two hoots about the wedding itself,” Mama said. “I’m suggesting you do it purely for financial reasons.” She paused. “Plus, I think it’s good for you to get out of your comfort zone every now and then.”

  “Out of my comfort zone?” I glanced at Evan to see if she was listening, then I lowered my voice. “What do you call marrying Chris? Or leaving him and moving back home? Or opening Twig? A large chunk of my adult life has been spent out of my comfort zone.”

  Mama held up her hands. “Okay. I hear you, and you’re right. I just don’t want you to give a quick no to something that could be a good thing for you. Allow a little—”

  “I know, I know. Allow a little magic in my life. You tell me that at least four times a week.”

  “I’m just saying. Sometimes God puts things in our paths for a reason. Best to sit up and pay attention. Plus, Mr. Tate here would probably pay you a pretty penny to be the florist.”

  Florist. I shook my head. I was no such thing. Shrubs and fruit trees I knew. Annuals, perennials, what to plant in the shade or full sun. How to keep pests out of the garden. Containers and window boxes. That’s what I knew. Boutonnieres? Wedding bouquets? How to please brides . . . and mothers of the bride? Not my thing. But an extra chunk of money for Twig? I’d be an idiot to turn it down, regardless of how I felt about lavish weddings.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said finally.

  Mama sat back in her chair, satisfied as a cat on a warm windowsill.

  Later, after dinner was over and the pots were clean and drip-drying on a dish towel by the sink, I sat alone on the porch and waited for rain. The storm was just a low rumble now, miles away. As I stared out at the muted purples and blues of the magic hour, thunder cracked, drowning out the sounds of Mama’s and Evan’s voices inside and silencing the cicadas screaming in the trees.

  As I sat and listened, I remembered. I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Ben’s reappearance had dredged up all kinds of old memories—not forgotten ones, but ones I’d left mostly untouched in deep recesses, like a chest buried in an attic, covered in dust, but with a few fingerprints here and there, betraying prying fingers and eyes over the years. And now all those little interactions—from the first time I saw Ben to the last—came flooding back, like the creek that fed the Icebox after a hard, fast rain.

  It was almost hard to recognize myself as I was back then. Cheerleader. Popular. Flirty. Sometimes after a shower when the mirror was fogged up, I studied myself, searching for the girl I used to be in high school—the one with the perfectly curled blonde hair, who studied the cheers and knew the precise moment to kick my leg or jump into a split or raise my arms. The one who bought an extra tube of cheer captain-approved pink lip gloss, just in case I lost mine. Evan would go bonkers if she knew her mom had been one of those perky girls she loved to make fun of.

  Back then I did anything I could do to be exactly as I thought I was supposed to be. There was no scary underlying reason. Nothing a therapist needed to uncover. I just wanted to be liked. To be desired. Loved, even. Who didn’t want that? Especially when you’re young, when everyone wants to fit in, to be connected, to not feel lonely. At Perry, the cool kids were cheerleaders and football players, so that’s the personality I slid into, like a second skin.

  I knew who Ben was, knew he lived somewhere down our road. I even knew he was cute. But he was different, and I didn’t want different. I wanted to blend in, not stick out like he did. He was on the football team, but he was not the typical football player reveling in his glory days. He spent free periods in the library studying or in the courtyard after lunch. He’d sit in the sun and read instead of laughing and shoving with the rest of the team at the
center table in the cafeteria.

  I knew these things, because as “his” cheerleader, it was my job to make him posters, bake his favorite cookies, bring him balloons on game days, and I always had to track him down because he was never with the rest of the team. He was always polite and thanked me for whatever trinket or snack I brought him. He’d smile—he had a great smile—but he rarely said much more.

  It wasn’t until one Saturday afternoon in the spring of our sophomore year that the wall between us finally fell. I’d gone out to check the mailbox for Mama and saw Ben in the middle of the street pushing a huge monster of a car down the road toward his house. He had the driver side door open and he was walking just inside it, one hand on the open window ledge, the other hand on the steering wheel. He was pushing. Hard. I was so surprised, I just stood and stared.

  “You busy?” he called when he saw me standing there, mouth open.

  “I, uh . . .”

  “I could use some help if you’re not.”

  I held my hands up in question, but he’d already put his head back down, straining under the effort of pushing the car over the uneven spots in the dirt road. I tossed down the stack of catalogs and bills and jogged over to him. He was sweating in the spring warmth, and I could see the dip of his spine and the ridges of his shoulder blades through his white T-shirt. I looked away.

  “What should I do?”

  He pulled back so the car slid to a stop. “Hop in.” He gestured to the driver’s seat.

  I raised my eyebrows. “You want me to drive?” I wouldn’t turn sixteen for a few more months, but it wasn’t the lack of a license that made me pause. The interior of the car—a Jeep Grand Wagoneer, as the nameplate on the side read in swirly silver script—was dirty. The leather on the seats was ripped, with stuffing poking out of each hole. The dash was covered in a layer of gray dust, and a dark stain—oil? paint? something worse?—was splattered against the passenger door and window.