Glory Road Page 9

  “What are you doing up?” she asked. “I thought you were asleep.”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  She patted the cushion next to her. “You can sit if you want.”

  I crossed the porch and sat on the swing. Lightning flashed, followed a moment later by thunder. The sound was both comforting and unsettling, and for a strange moment, I wanted to bury my face in her shoulder like I did when I was little.

  “About eight miles, I’d say,” Mom said.

  “I think closer to six.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see.”

  It was something we always did—count the time between the lightning and the thunder to judge how far off a storm was. Although in the summer, it was hard to tell if the lightning was coming from a storm or if it was just from the heat of the day.

  We rocked in silence for a bit before Mom spoke. “You and Nick seemed to get along well this afternoon. Do you want to tell me about him?”

  “Do you want to tell me about Mr. Bradley?” I closed my eyes. I hadn’t meant to ask such a personal question. Then again, maybe it’d get the focus off Nick. “I mean, you were totally flustered when he showed up.”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled, then held up her hands. “We . . . used to know each other in school. Well, a little at school, but more on the street. He grew up on Glory Road.”

  “That’s what Nick said.”

  Mom smiled down at me.

  “No way,” I said. “This is about you, not me. From the way y’all acted, you were more than just neighbors way back when. Spill it.”

  I don’t know what I expected—a bad date to prom? Something embarrassing like Gus asking Officer Kellan to take Mom out on a date? Whatever I thought it might be, it wasn’t even close to the truth. Because Mom leaned her head back and sighed. Then she squinted one eye, as if the memory were too bright to look at full-on. “He was my first love.”

  I waited, wanting more. She rubbed her thumb up and down the swing chain. Lightning flashed, followed by thunder three seconds later. The first fat raindrops splattered on the front walk.

  “Love?”

  She nodded, her eyes unfocused, seeing something other than the porch, some other time, another history I wasn’t a part of.

  “What happened? Why didn’t you stay together?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. We were never actually . . . together. I didn’t realize until later that I actually loved him a little. Or a lot.” She chewed on the edge of her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”

  “But why didn’t . . . Did he not love you back?” All I could think was, Someone else? Someone else didn’t love her enough?

  “Oh yes.” This time her response was quick and sure. “He did.”

  I was relieved but then confused. “I don’t get it. Why didn’t it work? Why weren’t you together?”

  She shook her head, then patted me on the leg. “We just missed each other. Then later on we wanted different things. Or I thought I did. Then your dad came along and . . .” She sighed. “Sometimes things just happen. Or don’t happen.”

  It was the vaguest answer she could have possibly given, but I didn’t even know how to ask for specifics. “Why did you never tell me about him?”

  “Honey, you’re fourteen. There are things I haven’t been able to tell you because you’re too young. I know it doesn’t feel that way. I know it feels like you have all the answers and know everything there is to know, but the world—and love itself—is complicated.”

  “Were you ever going to tell me about him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someday. If I needed to.”

  “Well, it would have been nice to know about him before meeting his hot son.”

  “He’s hot?”

  “Ugh, Mom, I don’t know. Don’t say that word.”

  “Well, you said . . .”

  “Forget it. I just wish I’d known you and Mr. Bradley had such a steamy past—”

  “Evan. It was not steamy.”

  “—before I went on to Nick about coming to Twig to get help with their vegetable garden. ‘Sure, my mom would love to help your dad. She can really grow some tomatoes.’” I rolled my eyes.

  “Sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t mean to keep anything from you. If you want to ask me anything about Ben—Mr. Bradley—I’ll answer as truthfully as I can. Shoot.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know. Is it weird seeing him now? Today?”

  She gave a slow nod. “A little.”

  “Do you ever wish things had turned out different? That it had worked out between the two of you?”

  She tilted her head. “If anything had happened differently than it did, then I wouldn’t have you. So, no. I’m satisfied with exactly how everything in my life has happened. Because of you.” She kissed my forehead and wrapped her arm around my shoulder.

  The thunder came on the heels of the lightning now, one after the other. The smell of wet dirt and grass floated up the steps and mingled with the jasmine climbing the porch rail. After a while, I peeked at Mom. Her eyes were closed. I thought of Mr. Bradley as he watched her from Twig’s back porch. I thought of Nick, “Hallelujah,” and the way he climbed into his dad’s Jeep. I thought of Mom’s red-and-white bathing suit, how excited she was to show it off to my dad. How soon that excitement turned to sadness.

  “I’m glad it’s just us,” I whispered.

  “Hmm?” Mom murmured, half in the here and now, half asleep.

  “If it’s just the three of us, no one leaves.”

  Her eyes opened and she stared at me hard. I thought she was going to laugh, correct me, something. Maybe tell me that was no way to go through life. But she closed her eyes again and pulled me closer to her. I let my head drop onto her shoulder and watched the rain fall.

  CHAPTER 11

  Gardening is more than a hobby. It is a way of life for those willing to accept the often-strenuous work, the disappointments, and the impermanence of its beauty as part of the gift.

  —AARON IRVING, GRACE IN THE GARDEN

  JESSIE

  My dreams that night began with cheerleading—rising to the top of a pyramid of thin, muscled arms and shoulders and doing a perfect split before flipping all the way down. I landed on my feet, of course. Ben came dashing out of the football huddle, helmet in hand, to hug me and tell me he always knew I could do it.

  Then there were wedding bells, but not for me. I stood at the back of a huge gothic cathedral, waiting for the bride to make her entrance. Then one by one, all the flowers I’d so painstakingly arranged at the end of every pew began to wither. Pink blush roses, dinner plate–size peonies, and peachy-pink ranunculus all turned black and drooped. The bride, radiant in a shimmery dress, stared at me and cried.

  The dream was still fresh in my mind when I woke, legs tangled in sheets, fingers gripping the pillow. I sat up and pushed my messy hair back from my face, then stretched my arms over my head. Both Bens—the quietly determined one from years past and the more rugged and relaxed one of yesterday—remained with me, making my stomach tighten with nerves. Or maybe it was just the dream. Even with sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, it clung to me like a spiderweb.

  Then the scent of bacon and Mama’s trembly early morning alto singing, “And it burns, burns, burns . . .” floated out of the kitchen, down the hall, and under my bedroom door. I inhaled and hoped she was singing about the ring of fire, not our breakfast.

  I blinked, then threw on my work clothes. Today it was cargo shorts and a gray tank top with the shop’s logo across the chest—“Twig” in a scrolled font, the tail of the g shaped into a thin twig with tiny red berries—and followed the scent and Mama’s voice into the kitchen.

  “Morning,” Mama said to my back as I poured coffee into a mug and added half-and-half. “Hungry?”

  “Always.”

  Evan trudged into the kitchen just as I sat at the table. I checked the clock on the microwave. “Seven fifteen and you’re awake?”
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br />   “Who could sleep through all that warbling?” Evan pulled open the fridge and grabbed the bottle of orange juice. “She started with ‘A Boy Named Sue.’ Not exactly conducive to sleeping.”

  “I missed that one,” I said. “Must have been sleeping too hard.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Mama reached over and tugged Evan’s ponytail. “You’ve inherited my lovely singing voice, dear granddaughter. Don’t deny it. I’ve heard you sing.”

  “It’s true,” I whispered in Evan’s direction.

  She rolled her eyes and tried to hide her smile.

  I loved my daughter all the time, but I loved her so much in the mornings before she outfitted herself in her armor of the day—dark pants (shorts or leggings in the summer) and a T-shirt with some reference to music or the seventies or an obscure record shop on a forgotten alley in New York City. Anything to set herself apart. As if she even needed to try.

  Mama set a plate of bacon—the real kind, no turkey bacon for Gus McBride—down in the center of the table next to a basket of fluffy biscuits and a plate of steaming scrambled eggs.

  “Eat up,” she said.

  There were times when I felt guilty for allowing my mother to cook for my almost-forty-year-old self and my daughter, but then I reminded myself it was her choice. Not only that, but she loved it. She was always a good cook, but she started cooking and baking more after Dad died. When we left Birmingham and moved back home, one of the best parts of it for her was the fact that she had someone to cook for again. Plus, we probably took the edge off her loneliness.

  When Evan and I moved back, she began spending most of her time at our house. Now hardly a day went by that I didn’t return home at the end of the day and smell something delicious—sizzling chicken, simmering soup, or the sugared goodness of a fresh pie.

  Mama turned to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Oh, Jessie, I was thinking,” she said with her back to me. Across the table, Evan bit into a biscuit and a blob of grape jelly plopped onto the table. “You know, you’re right about not needing to do the wedding for Mr. Tate. You’re used to how things are, you’re comfortable. Why go and mess that all up? You’re making the right decision to just say no and stay away from any real challenges. Or opportunities.”

  Mama sat at the table and filled her plate. Her row of daily pills—beta blocker, three vitamins, and a baby aspirin—sat huddled on her placemat.

  “Yeah, Mom. Familiar is good. Comfortable is good.”

  I heard Evan’s words as her own truth, but Mama’s smacked of snark even though she said them with a straight face. She gazed at me with wide, innocent eyes as she sipped her coffee. “Don’t you think?”

  Last night I’d lain awake in bed for what seemed like hours, unable to sleep. I kept thinking about how some extra money coming into Twig right about now would be such a help and how, truly, I could handle the extra workload. Why had I been so insistent on not doing the wedding? Staying in my comfort zone didn’t pay me a dime, but for all I knew, Sumner had already called someone else and gotten an enthusiastic yes.

  I pulled his business card out of the front pocket of my shorts.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Mama said. “You’re keeping the card close just in case you need it.”

  “Mama, I can see straight through you.”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I reached behind me and grabbed my cell off the counter, then punched the numbers into the phone. When I put the phone to my ear, Evan mouthed, “Who are you calling?”

  It rang three times, then Sumner’s deep voice filled the silence, asking me to leave a message and saying he’d get back to me as soon as possible.

  “Hi, Mr. Tate—Sumner—this is Jessie McBride. We spoke yesterday about your daughter’s wedding.”

  Next to me Mama whispered, “Trust me, honey, he remembers.”

  I shook my head. “I’ve . . .” I swallowed hard. “I’ve changed my mind. About the wedding. Could you please ask your daughter to call me when she can? I’d like to go over a few things with her.”

  I hung up and gently placed my cell on the table.

  “The wedding is Labor Day weekend, so don’t make any plans, either of you. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing it,” Evan said.

  I reached over and squeezed her hand. With my other hand I crammed a bite of now-cooled scrambled egg in my mouth.

  “I’m surprised,” Mama said. “Here I go telling you one thing and you do the exact opposite.”

  “Very funny. I knew what you were up to.”

  “I’ve never been able to make you change your mind. What did it?”

  “The new computer we may need if Ben can’t get mine up and running again. A new back fence from where Jay Clark’s grandson ran through it with his riding lawn mower. I need more square footage in the greenhouse, new back steps. A new timing belt in the 4Runner.” I counted the items off on my fingers. “What else? Oh, right. I’d like to take myself to the Grand Hotel for a long weekend. Maybe get one of those fancy spa treatments.”

  Evan and Mama stared at me, mouths hanging open a bit, “to catch flies,” as Mama would have said if it’d been me.

  “Good Lord, how much are you charging these people?” she asked. “While you’re at it, I’d like a white Lexus and a pair of rhinestone-covered boots.”

  “Honestly, I’m not expecting to get any of that. Well, except the computer. I’m just making a point that I made the decision for purely business reasons. Nothing else.”

  Mama stood from the table and pushed her chair in. “My lips are sealed.”

  I’d just hung the Open sign on the front door of Twig when the phone rang. I answered my cell as I walked through the front room, watering pots and straightening displays. Mama would be here in a few minutes to help me move the orchid display in the greenhouse to make room for new pepper plants.

  “Mrs. McBride, I’m so sorry to just now be calling you back. This is Olivia Tate.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.” I checked my watch. I’d left the message for Sumner only twenty minutes ago.

  “Well, I like to be prompt.” Her tone was clipped and precise. “I would have called earlier, but I was stuck on the F train with no cell service. Something about a jam near Rockefeller Center. But I’m at my office now.” She gave a quick sigh, then cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m ready. Fire away.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Dad said you had some questions for me? About the wedding?”

  “Yes, but . . . Rockefeller Center? You’re in New York?”

  “Manhattan, yes. Did he not tell you that?”

  “No, he didn’t mention it.” So not only was she going to be a high-strung bride, but she was going to be a high-strung bride operating remotely. “I just assumed you lived in the area since your dad does.”

  “No, I haven’t lived down there since I left for college. I went to law school here and I’ve been working at a firm in Midtown for the last two years.” She shuffled some papers. I imagined her sitting at an immaculate desk in an equally immaculate office overlooking a classic downtown street scene. “I’m planning to fly home the week before the wedding. My dad mentioned that he thought you’d be a great person to do our flowers but that you were booked up. Is that still correct?”

  I paused. Last chance to back out. “Actually I’ve had some time open up in my schedule and I may be able to make it work. I did want to ask—”

  Olivia exhaled in a rush like she’d been holding her breath all morning. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. McBride. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. And it’s Jessie. Not Mrs. anything.”

  “Okay. Jessie. Thanks for taking this on.”

  “Before you get too excited, I’m not sure how much your father told you, but I’m not a florist. I don’t sell flowers by the stem. I sell azaleas, snapdragons, parsley. Plants people put in containers on their porches and in flower
beds. My business isn’t really set up to do weddings.”

  “But can’t anyone with a business license order flowers wholesale?”

  “Yes, that’s true.” She’d done her research. “If you got a business license, you could buy them yourself.”

  “Oh, I do not have time to do that. That’s why I need you.”

  “Let me ask you this. Are you using a wedding coordinator? Because usually the coordinators take care of booking your vendors—florists, caterers, band, all the details. They’re not cheap, but they’re worth it. Especially with such a tight time frame.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about money.” From someone else, the comment may have come across as snobby, but she said it so matter-of-factly, I couldn’t take any offense. “The sky’s the limit with my dad.”

  I pushed open the back screen door and reached up to turn on the fan. As the blades swirled, tendrils of jasmine danced in the breeze. I inhaled deeply, as I did every morning. Heady midsummer scents—so different from the springtime sweetness—saturated the air.

  “And believe me,” she continued, “I called every wedding coordinator I could find in a forty-mile radius of Mobile.”

  “And they were all booked?”

  “Oh no. They were all wide open. I got the sense that they were mentally canceling other events so they could focus solely on Sumner Tate’s daughter’s Oak House wedding.”

  “And . . . that’s not a good thing?”

  She paused. “How do I say this? They were pathetic. They could barely contain their excitement. Jessie, I’ll be honest. I like efficiency and professionalism. I do not need some overly enthusiastic wedding planner gushing over me or my dad or the house. I definitely don’t want anyone just trying to get her name in a magazine.”

  “You don’t get the feeling that I’m trying to get my name in a magazine?”

  “Not from how Dad described your place.”

  I tried to laugh, but it was more of a snort. “Well, that’s . . .”