Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “Good. Great, actually.” A smile cracked his scruffy jaw. “Everybody wants sweet potatoes this time of year.”

  I laughed. Not flirting, just . . . Well, flirting a little. Totally innocent, perfectly safe. I was happily married. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Sales are up. Way up. We’re in All Seasons now.”

  All Seasons Market, a small produce and grocery chain gradually spreading throughout the Carolinas. “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “Thanks. I was talking to Abby about expanding distribution. But I guess you know all about that.”

  “Not really.” My mother and I didn’t talk farm business. Our conversations focused on the twins or John. “How are your folks?” I asked.

  “They’re good. Ma and Pop are figuring they can finally buy that RV, drive cross-country the way they’ve always talked about.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his beard with the back of one hand. “Although they’re leaving me in a bit of a jam. I’m actually looking for somebody to take over the books now.”

  “Mommy, Santa,” Daisy said.

  “In a minute, honey.”

  Carl glanced down. “These yours?”

  I’d always dated clean-cut, clean-shaven types, like John. The beard, though, was kind of hot. I blinked. What was the question again? “Yes. Daisy and DJ.”

  “Cute. I don’t suppose you’re interested?”

  A flush swept my face. Had he caught me staring? “Excuse me?”

  “In keeping the books,” Carl said.

  “Oh.” I was relieved. And maybe just a little . . . disappointed? “Oh no. I’m not . . . That is, I don’t . . .”

  “Course, we couldn’t pay what you’re making now. It’s not really a full-time job. Compared to the bank, a spread like ours is pretty small potatoes.” He smiled at his little joke.

  I couldn’t help smiling back. “It’s not that,” I assured him. I’d always liked working with small businesses. But . . . “I’m not at the bank anymore. I’m home with the kids.”

  It’s what I wanted. What John wanted, after having to raise himself and his brother while their mother worked two jobs to support them.

  “Then this job is perfect. You could do it from home. In your spare time. Say, twenty hours a week? Less.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I have twins. There is no spare time.”

  Certainly not twenty hours a week. Not even one. Every second of every day was taken up taking care of other people, doing all the things my mother seemed to manage so effortlessly. If my house was never as clean, my cooking never as good, my children never as well behaved, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  “Gotcha,” Carl said. “Well, if you ever change your mind, you should call me.”

  “Thanks.”

  Not that I ever would. But still, it was nice to feel wanted.

  The line for Santa wended past the fire safety display and the cake walk table. A female firefighter with elf ears and a clipboard took our names. Another manned a camera set up by the fire truck. DJ kicked his feet in the stroller as Daisy danced forward in line.

  “Look, DJ. It’s Santa.”

  He smiled his slow, sweet smile.

  Clipboard Elf beckoned. “Next.”

  But as I lifted DJ from the stroller to pass to Santa, seated on the textured metal step at the back of the fire truck, his little body stiffened. “No.”

  “It’s Santa, honey,” I said. Actually, I was pretty sure the guy behind the fake white beard was Randal Collins, the assistant fire chief, but to DJ, he was a strange man in a red fat suit. “Don’t you want to see Santa?”

  “No. NO!” he screamed, and twisted away.

  “He doesn’t want to, Mommy.” Daisy, two minutes older than her brother, was fierce in his defense.

  It took almost three minutes of coaxing and the promise of a cookie when we were through to settle my children onto Santa’s lap. Even so, DJ fussed until I hauled myself onto the truck, conscious of all the mothers waiting in line with their perfectly behaved children. I squeezed into the frame, grabbing Santa’s knee for balance.

  “Ho ho ho,” Randal said.

  “Smile!” commanded the elf.

  Years from now, I knew, we’d look back on the pictures of Daisy scowling and DJ bawling on Santa’s lap, and think, How cute. How precious. How hilarious. But it wasn’t funny as I climbed down, murmuring apologies to the other parents in line.

  “Meg? Meg! Over here!”

  I looked around, my face hot. There. By the new ambulance. Sallie Gardiner Moffat and her older sister, Belle. Sallie and I had been on pep committee and homecoming court together. She was a buyer now for Simply Southern, an upscale women’s boutique in a restored Victorian between Connie’s Cupcake Confections and Bunyan Hardware.

  She waved. “Meg! How are you? It’s so great to see you! I barely recognized you.”

  Sallie looked exactly the same, like the cheerleader she’d been in high school, like she could climb to the top of the pyramid and backflip off: ponytail hair, full face of makeup, coordinated outfit.

  I finished buckling Daisy into the stroller and handed DJ his blanket. “Hi, Sallie. Hey, Belle. We were just visiting Santa.”

  “Bless your heart,” Belle said.

  Belle was a mommy, too, but she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine or one of Sallie’s display windows. Highlights, Botox, mascara, and manicure. I could almost hear Jo snort. Here’s your Southern Woman card.

  I tugged on my top and smiled at her. “Where are your kids today?”

  “Oh, Harper has a soccer game. Have you seen five-year-olds play soccer?” Belle shuddered delicately. “Running up and down the field like a giant amoeba. No idea of position at all. Incredibly boring. So George took them.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s . . . That’s good.”

  She raised a slim shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose. Children need sports, right? Physical activity. Harper has soccer and ballet. And tae kwon do, of course. I signed up both children as soon as they turned three. Yours are almost old enough.”

  “I don’t think . . . Our pediatrician says at this age they get most of their activity from play.”

  “They still need structure.”

  “They go to preschool,” I said. “First Methodist, two mornings a week.”

  “Harper and Logan are at Sterling Academy.” Belle smiled faintly. “It’s not for everyone, of course.”

  That was for sure. My children were never going to learn Mandarin at their preschool.

  Sallie nudged her sister. “We loved First Methodist. Remember the youth group?”

  “Mommy, go!” Daisy demanded. “Cookie time!”

  “In a second, honey.” DJ’s blankie was dragging on the ground. I stooped to retrieve it. “I promised them we’d get cookies. We all deserve a treat after Santa.”

  Belle raised perfectly waxed brows without wrinkling her forehead. “Do you think that’s wise?”

  I bristled. “Daisy’s in the thirtieth percentile of weight gain for her age.” Twentieth for height. Developing normally, the pediatrician said, a little ahead of her twin. She certainly wasn’t fat.

  “I meant for you,” Belle said.

  Sallie grabbed her sister’s arm. “It’s been great seeing you, Meg,” she said, sounding sincere. “We really need to get together.”

  “I’d like that. Any special plans for the holidays?”

  “Not really. Ned is taking me to Hawaii in January. So we’ll probably just go to the beach house with the family.” Sallie brightened. “You should come.”

  I blinked. “I’m afraid Hawaii is a little . . .” Out of our budget. “Far away.”

  “Not Hawaii, silly. The beach. There’s plenty of room.”

  Oh. Longing swept me
. John and I had spent our first night together at Carolina Beach. But the years when I could take off for the beach with nothing but a swimsuit and some sunscreen were gone. Nowadays, it was an effort to pack the twins to go to the grocery store.

  “Aren’t you sweet. Thank you. But we’re going to Momma’s for Thanksgiving this year.” The way we did every year. John’s family wasn’t really into holidays. “Beth and Amy are coming home,” I added, by way of explanation. “And Momma’s invited Mr. Laurence and Trey.”

  “Clever Momma,” Belle drawled. “Inviting the boss to dinner. Didn’t you used to go out with him?”

  I flushed. Aunt Phee always said it was as easy to love a rich man as a poor one. But Momma wasn’t like that. Our parents had raised us to value love, not money.

  Mischief seized me. I shook my head. “He’s a little old for me,” I said demurely.

  “What are you talking about?” Belle asked.

  “Mr. Laurence,” I said. “He must be seventy, at least.”

  Sallie laughed.

  “I meant Trey,” Belle said.

  “He’s too young. It would be like dating my brother.”

  “Or your brother-in-law,” Sallie said. “Remember? He and Jo had a thing for a while,” she said to Belle.

  “Jo? But she’s so . . .” Belle took one look at my face and stopped.

  Too late.

  “Smart?” I suggested sweetly. “Sure of herself?”

  “How is Jo?” Sallie asked, making peace. “She’s living in New York now, right? When is she coming home?”

  “Soon.” Not soon enough. “Christmas.”

  “Won’t that be nice.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Sallie bit her lip. Glanced uncertainly at Belle.

  Sallie and I had grown up together. Her birthdays had been a series of firsts for me: my first unicorn ride (a white pony with a glitter horn), my first spa visit, my first party with boys.

  Three years ago, she had asked me to be in her wedding party. When I told her I was pregnant with twins, she’d been all concerned. How would I manage getting in and out of limos and being on my feet all day? What if the excitement sent me into early labor?

  Belle was the one who told me a pregnant bridesmaid would just ruin the pictures of Sallie’s big day.

  So I’d said no. The thought still gave me a pang.

  Water under the bridge, Momma would say.

  I smiled. “You all have a great time at the beach. Maybe I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “Absolutely.” She hugged me tight. “Ned and I are having a Christmas party on the tenth. I’ll call you.”

  And maybe she would, I thought, as I wheeled the stroller toward the market farm stands. Maybe John and I would have our night out after all. If Momma could watch the twins.

  What would I wear?

  I bought cookies for Daisy and DJ at the bakery booth. And one for me. Crunching away, I turned the stroller up the row toward Momma’s stall. SISTERS’ FARM, read the sign, after Momma and her sister Elizabeth, who had died when they both were just girls. But the tables were empty. Momma wasn’t there.

  My stomach clenched. Mom wouldn’t miss the market the weekend before Thanksgiving. Unless her back was bothering her again.

  I stopped by the farm on the way home, bouncing up the rutted gravel drive to the back door. A few goats rambled in and out of their shelter, pulling lazily on bales of hay. As the foliage died, my mother rotated the herd from the woodland perimeter to pastures by the barn.

  I’d asked my mother once why she had decided to build a herd of dairy goats instead of finding a job in town.

  “Goats are easier to keep than cows. I could do most of the work myself and be home for you girls.” That was our mother, always practical. She looked out over the herd, her face softening. “Besides, goats have personality.”

  I’d nodded, but I didn’t get it. I mean, Aunt Phee had personality, too, but I didn’t want to spend all my time with her.

  I parked, careful to avoid the puddles from last night’s rain. Daisy held up her arms to be released first.

  I set her on her feet. “Stay next to Mommy,” I said, and ducked my head back in to unbuckle DJ.

  Daisy took off toward the kids’ paddock, thick with grass, squishy with mud. Empty now, thank the Lord, except for a battered preschool playset my mother had purchased at the church yard sale years ago. “Goats!”

  “No, Daisy,” I said. “No baby goats. Not until springtime.”

  Undeterred, she toddled faster. “Slide!”

  Hitching DJ and his blanket on my hip and my giant bag over my shoulder, I ran after her, catching her by the back of her full skirt. She stopped. Dropped. Fell on her bottom, right into a puddle. Shocked, she looked for my reaction, her little mouth comically ajar, wavering between tears and outrage.

  I opened my mouth in an exaggerated O of surprise. Widened my eyes. “Splash!” I said with a big grin.

  The storm cleared. She smiled back tremulously.

  “Come on, baby.” I crouched beside her, still holding DJ, and helped her to her feet. Water drenched her little bottom, splotched her skirt and stockings. I lurched to my feet, balancing DJ and Blankie on one arm, taking her hand with the other. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Crisis averted, we picked our way through the puddles to the house. Daisy tugged against my hold. “Goats,” she insisted. “See goats.”

  “We’re going to see the kitty,” I said. Weasley, my mother’s ginger barn cat, was almost twenty now and mostly retired to the house.

  “Key?” Daisy asked.

  “That’s right.” I glanced toward the kitchen door, surprised our arrival hadn’t summoned Momma. Her truck was in the drive. Where was she?

  “Up the steps, sweetie. Here we go.” I opened the back door. Unlocked, as always. “Mom?” And then, more tentatively, “Dad?”

  Not that he would be any help. My father loved his grandchildren, of course. Whenever he noticed them, he smiled and patted them on the head. But his attention was always fixed elsewhere—on his all-important work, his men, his mission.

  A plaintive yowl answered me. Weasley slunk into the kitchen.

  “Key!” Daisy yanked free.

  The cat, no fool, bolted. My daughter, deprived of the object of her affections, let out a wail of frustration. Poor baby. John and I had talked about getting the children a pet, but right now I wasn’t ready to take on responsibility for one more living thing.

  “Momma?” I called again.

  No answer. Maybe she was in the barn. I let DJ slide from my hip to the floor. Rummaging in my bag, I handed a toy truck to DJ and dug out dry leggings for Daisy. Since the twins started toilet training, I never traveled without a change of clothes. Stripping Daisy of her sodden stockings, I helped her step into dry panties. “Here we go, sweetie.”

  DJ approached his crying sister to give her a kiss. My heart melted. My sweet, serious boy.

  “No.” Daisy pushed him away.

  He hit her in the face with his little Ford truck.

  Daisy shrieked.

  “Demi John!” I swooped DJ into time-out on a chair (“We do not hit. No hitting.”), grabbed a dish towel from a drawer and a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. I was at home in Momma’s kitchen. Maybe more so than in my own.

  “Cold!” Daisy sobbed, twisting away.

  “I know, baby. But it will make your cheek feel better.”

  I sat with her on my lap, petting and soothing until her tears subsided. “There we go. All better,” I said. She would have a bruise by morning.

  I hung the dish towel to dry on the oven door. Glanced out the window. Still no Momma. I felt a sticky tickle of unease, like walking into a cobweb. Mom did most of the farmwork herself. But still, there wasn’t that much to do this time of year.


  “Come on, my babies.” I hefted DJ on my hip, held out a hand for Daisy. “Let’s go find Marmee.”

  The air in the barn was thick with the dusty summer smell of hay, the salty sweet scent of the goats. The milking does—already pregnant with next spring’s kids—raised their heads as we passed their open pen. The younger ones butted against the fence, seeking affection or feed. I held Daisy’s little fingers tight, mindful of nibbling teeth.

  “Mom?”

  A low moan answered me. An animal in pain.

  “Momma.” Oh, dear God in heaven. My mother lay on her back on the feed-aisle floor, surrounded by scattered stubble. I dropped to my knees beside her. “What happened?”

  “Fell.” She arched her back as a spasm hit her, straining, gasping for breath.

  “What can I do?”

  Her gaze found DJ in my arms. “Take . . . the children . . . house.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” I said fiercely.

  Should I move her? I didn’t dare.

  Daisy tugged at me, upset. “What’s wrong with Marmee?”

  DJ, alarmed by his sister’s tone, started to snuffle. “Marmee!”

  My mother closed her eyes, turning her head away. I struggled to my feet, dragging Daisy by the hand into one of the birthing stalls. I sat her on a bale of hay. Plopped DJ beside her.

  Daisy opened her mouth to wail.

  I gripped her shoulders. “Stop it,” I snapped.

  Shocked, she met my eyes, her little face red.

  “You stay here,” I commanded. “Stay and watch DJ. You understand? You watch your brother.”

  Because she was the oldest. By two minutes. Only two minutes, my conscience cried.

  But, miraculously, she understood. Her mouth closed. She nodded solemnly.

  “That’s my girl.”

  I patted her shoulders and hurried back to my mother.

  * * *

  The last time I was at the hospital, John and I were bringing DJ home, a week after the twins were born. “Breathing problems,” the nurse had explained as they hustled my baby away. “For his own good.” Nothing I could do.