by Karen White
She stared down at her hands as she spoke. “Are there going to be a lot of people there?”
“Not too many. You’ve met them all before, so they’ll probably leave you alone for the most part.”
She glanced up at him. “That’s not what I meant. I just wanted to make sure I had enough film for pictures.” She patted her bag. “I brought my camera.”
He nodded, checking his rearview mirror before turning left. As he drove past the cemetery, a large poster tacked on a telephone pole caught his attention. Abruptly, he swerved his truck to the side of the road and stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Suzanne’s hands were protectively roped around her bag.
“That damned Stinky Harden is what’s wrong.”
Joe leaped out of the truck, slamming the door hard. He stood in front of the telephone pole, staring up at Stinky Harden’s campaign poster slapped over one of his own. Underneath the man’s smug face were the words DO YOU REALLY WANT MORE OF THE SAME? Joe turned slowly, looking at the low brick wall that bordered the cemetery, and shook his head in disgust at the line of Stinky’s posters somebody had tacked up. With one smooth movement, he tore the poster off the pole.
“Why does this campaign mean so much to you?”
He turned to face Suzanne, who had climbed out of the truck. “It doesn’t. It’s not even about me staying mayor. It’s more about making sure Stinky Harden isn’t mayor.”
“Why, though? You’re both from here. Would it really make that much of a difference?”
He looked into her gray eyes, noticing for the first time the light smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose and the lucidity of her pale skin. He forgot for a moment what he was talking about, until he looked down at his hands and saw the poster. “Stinky has been living in Atlanta since college, and only moved back three years ago when his sister Mary Jane sold him their parents’ house before she moved down to Florida. I don’t know for sure, but rumor has it that Stinky pretty much gambled away a small fortune in Atlanta and was running from creditors. It wasn’t until his parents died last year and left him a huge parcel of land on the outskirts of town that he started showing any interest in town politics.”
He crumpled up the poster and threw it onto the floor of the truck. He looked at her again for a long moment, considering whether or not to tell her more. Finally, he said, “I’ve made it my business to find out that he’s had some dealings with a paper manufacturer. I also happen to know that the land he inherited is mostly prime virgin forest. I may not be the most brilliant guy in the world, but I know enough to put two and two together and figure out that giving Stinky Harden a place of authority in this town would not be a good thing.”
Suzanne wrinkled her nose and stared down the road, toward a distant horizon, where a smudge of green touched the sky. “I once lived near a pulp mill. You could smell it for thirty miles in every direction. Definitely not something I would recommend for Walton.”
She regarded him evenly, and he realized for the first time how nice it was not to have to lean down to look somebody in the eye. He moved to the cemetery wall, his anger growing. It was damned near desecration. “This might take a while.”
“I don’t mean to play devil’s advocate, but doesn’t he have the right to advertise?”
He bit back his first word choice. “It’s the cemetery. Nobody should be advertising anything here.” She retreated from him, and he regretted the coldness of his words.
Her voice was quiet, hesitant almost, as if she was reluctant to intrude on his anger. “It’s beautiful in there, and I’d like . . .” She paused. “I’d like to take some pictures. Would that be all right? The light is really perfect right now, but it’ll only last for another ten or fifteen minutes.”
He looked past her for a moment, into the sun and shadows spreading beyond the gates. “Sure. Go ahead. That’ll give me time to take all of these down.”
She slid her backpack from her shoulder and unzipped it to remove her camera and change the lens, then tossed the bag on the floor of the truck’s front seat.
Turning, she walked through the gates of the cemetery. He stared after her, wondering when she had begun to look so good to him. He hadn’t quite gotten used to her accent, but he could tell he was getting there.
Shaking his head, he bent to rip another poster off the wall. As long as he kept his thoughts to himself, everything would be fine. He found it somehow comforting that he could actually look at another woman that way, and that was enough for him. He looked into the cemetery, where Suzanne had disappeared, and knew that it would have to be enough.
Large magnolia trees hovered over the graves bordered by the brick wall, their thick branches like the protective arms of a mother. Their shiny leaves lay nestled at the bottom of the trunks and over several graves like a soft blanket, forever green and warm.
She started by taking pictures of the trees and of a creeping plant that climbed the red bricks, its long, tapered blossoms closed to the world as if waiting for something more interesting than daylight. She took pictures of clusters of graves and angels as the late-afternoon sun peered through the branches and cast long shadows across the ground and the rain puddles, like timelines of lives, with a definite beginning and end.
She changed the settings on her camera and began taking pictures of headstones, some of them so old that the dates and names had been erased by time, the records of life and death gone with the memories of those who had loved them.
Standing out in the open space in the middle was a small chained area, the center of it dominated by a sculpted angel, and smaller gravestones huddled around it like a congregation bent in prayer. Her steps faltered when she saw the familiar last name: Warner. Hesitating, she scanned the graves, almost relieved when she didn’t see the one she was looking for.
She felt him behind her before she heard the crack of fallen twigs. Without turning, she asked, “Is this your family?”
Joe pointed to a cluster of markers near the angel. “My parents are there in front, and my grandparents and great-grandparents are in the row behind them. Local legend has it that Warners have owned this plot since the beginning of time.” He moved forward to swipe the raindrops off the top of the chain. “Guess I’ll be in here myself someday.”
She studied his profile, admiring the strong curve of his chin, the way his dark hair swept over his forehead, and wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like to have roots so deep in a place that you could choose to be buried with your ancestors. It was an odd thought, sort of like her dreams where she’d be picking out an apartment in Paris to live in—pipe dreams never meant to happen but that she was reluctant to let go of. “You don’t think you’ll ever move away and want to be buried someplace else?”
He looked at her with a questioning expression. “Why would I want to do that?”
She shifted her feet uneasily, no longer sure she knew the answer to that. “For something different. For a change.”
Joe stared off into the sweeping pinks and purples of the distant sunset. “My sister moved to Dallas with her husband when she got married twenty years ago, and she’s been trying to find a way to move back ever since. When people ask her where she’s from, she’ll still say Walton.” His eyes were troubled when he looked back at her. “I guess that’s hard for you to understand.”
Hurt, she turned away from him, studying a nearby gravestone to hide her feelings. “Yeah, I guess it is.” Then, to change the conversation, she asked, “Does your sister have any children?”
“Three. Two boys and a girl.”
“Only three?” She hadn’t meant the words to come out sounding like a challenge.
Joe bent to pull a weed that had crept up alongside an ancient marker. He rubbed his hand over the crumbling inscription as he straightened. “It was never a competition. They just sort of . . . happened.”
“But why so many?” She squinted at him in the bright glow of the twilight sun, the light turning his eyes to go
ld, and knew that he wasn’t seeing her.
“They were all wanted.” He looked away from her, hiding his face. “Every one of them.”
“I’m sorry.” She shifted uncomfortably, wondering why she always had problems with the right words. “That’s not what I meant. It’s only—well, most of the children I ever knew growing up weren’t the wanted kind.”
His face was closed as he scrutinized her. “I guess you and I are pretty different, then.”
She gave him a sharp look, wondering why his words sounded like an explanation—or a dismissal. Maybe they were both. Sticking the lens cover on her camera, she turned and began walking back toward the entrance. She saw it then and wanted to pretend she hadn’t, but stopped anyway.
Nestled under a giant magnolia against the brick wall was a row of three gravestones, the one in the middle decorated with a miniature pine tree and small golden heart ornaments, so much like the one on her own necklace. She read the dates on the small marker and for the first time felt her own stab of grief. She realized then that the image she’d had of Harriet had been of an older woman, a woman who had harvested years of living, loving, and family. But Harriet had been Suzanne’s age when she died, and the utter emptiness of her own life seemed to reach out, grab hold, and swallow her.
Joe crouched and touched the stone, his fingers lingering on the letters of the name. “Cassie wanted her here, with their parents.”
Suzanne nodded, then bent next to him. She felt his warmth, and something else, too. It was as if the memories of his dead wife were strong enough to create a palpable presence. He didn’t move away but looked at her, his face unguarded, and at that moment she felt his sadness. Her heart shifted, making her fall back on her heels, and she felt the bond of a shared burden for the first time in her life.
Something her mother had once told her, something about the kindness of strangers, tugged at her, and she leaned down, too, to touch the stone and the letters of the name of the woman she would never meet but whom she felt as if she’d known all her life. She smelled the leaf mold and the damp earth and felt a part of her heart opening.
Not quite knowing where the words came from, she said, “I know that Harriet was working on an album of Maddie’s life, to give to her for graduation. I could finish it, if you want me to.” The words tied her down to this place, to this man next to her, and to the woman who slept beneath the arms of the magnolia. It wasn’t for forever, but it was more than she had ever expected.
Joe looked at her for a long moment, as if considering his words. Then he said simply, “Thank you.”
At his brief touch on her elbow, they stood and walked out of the cemetery together. A strong breeze gathered the loose raindrops and the giant magnolia’s leaves and shook them together in a gentle applause.
CHAPTER 9
Suzanne tried to act undaunted when they drove up to a neat two-story brick house, the lawn littered with the accessories of childhood: roller skates, scooters, an assortment of balls, and a pitch-back net. The trim on the house was freshly painted, the grass clipped short. The flower beds were empty except for weeds, sparsely laid pine straw, and two stray golf balls. It looked exactly how Suzanne thought it would.
“Where is everybody?” Suzanne strained her neck as she unclipped her seat belt, looking for cars.
“They either walked or they parked their cars on neighboring streets. I didn’t want to risk giving it away this late in the game. Sarah Frances really has no idea.”
He came over to her side of the car to help her out—something she had at first been surprised by and now appreciated. She liked the feel of her hand in his and the way he helped her step over puddles near the curb. There was something about a gentleman with manners that warmed her at the core. Something even Anthony had never seemed to manage.
They left the car and walked up the brick steps to the front door. As Joe held open the screen door for her, he said, “I guess it’ll come as no bolt from the blue to know that this party was all Maddie’s idea. She loves to surprise people—make them do a double take. Takes after her aunt Cassie.”
Suzanne thought of the stalwart Cassie, expectant mother and advertising executive. “Cassie?”
“Yep. I could tell you stories—”
They were interrupted by about fifty voices shouting, “Surprise!”
Suzanne jumped back, bumping into Joe. Instead of pushing her aside, he held on to her, his hands on her upper arms.
“Hey, y’all. Don’t get all excited—it’s just us.”
Curious faces peered over the sofa and chairs, a few from inside the closet. Suzanne recognized most of the adults, but the smattering of younger people—presumably Sarah Frances’s friends—were strangers. She felt only a tinge of her old nervousness and smiled at the familiar faces.
Joe continued to hold on to her as he moved her through the small foyer to the back of the house. His touch made her self-conscious but glad for it, as though he was letting her know that he was there and wasn’t going to leave her alone. They passed through the kitchen, where the table and counters were loaded with food, and into the family room, where Miss Lena seemed to be holding court in a large stuffed chair.
Suzanne glanced around, noticing all the framed photographs on every available surface. The furniture was comfortable, with several antique pieces interspersed with more modern items. It was a family room in every sense of the word, complete with toy box and a tiny pair of sneakers tucked under a chair where somebody had forgotten to put them away.
Ed Farrell stood behind Miss Lena, shaking his head as she entered into an animated discussion with the Sedgewick twins. As she got closer, Suzanne could hear that they were taking bets on something. Thinking it was about her, she started to move away but was called back by Miss Lena.
“Miss Paris, aren’t you going to take a chance? We’re betting on Cassie’s baby and whether it’s a boy or girl. Girl’s winning right now, but it’s not a sure thing. Proceeds go to buying a new sign for Reverend Beasley at the Methodist church. We’re going to get him a lit one so that people can read his messages better at night.”
One of the Sedgewick twins—Suzanne still couldn’t tell them apart—spoke, the twenty or so plastic bangle bracelets on her arm clicking together as she gestured while she talked. “She’s carrying it so low it’s got to be a boy. I bought twenty tickets.”
Her sister elbowed her in the arm. “It is most definitely a little girl. Cassie’s round all over, and you know that always means a girl. Just look at her ankles! It looks like they’re about to give birth, too.”
The subject of their discussion, upon hearing her name, glanced over at them with narrowed eyes but was restrained from joining the conversation by Sam, who raised a beer bottle in greeting to Suzanne and Joe.
Miss Lena glared up at the twins from her chair. “Now, hush, you two. Neither one of you would know anything about carrying or having babies. I’ll loan you Wicked Tender Love when I’m done reading it, and maybe you’ll learn something.”
Hiding a smile, Suzanne asked, “What do I get if my guess is right?”
Miss Lena beamed. “One of Mrs. Crandall’s award-winning lemon meringue pies. You’ll love it. Your mama certainly did. Ate an entire one all by herself.”
Suzanne froze and looked at Ed, whose quizzical expression must have matched her own. Leaning over the back of the chair, he said, “Mama, did you take your medicine today?”
Taking an envelope stuffed with money from her purse at her feet, Miss Lena answered, “Every morning, just like Dr. Parker tells me, son.” She looked at Suzanne. “The boy needs to get married and settled down so he’ll have somebody else to fuss over. You’re single, aren’t you?”
Suzanne couldn’t see whose face was more red—hers or Ed’s. Before she could respond, one of the Sedgewick sisters said, “She’s already spoken for,” and sent a meaningful glance in Joe’s direction.
Clearing his throat, Joe began leading Suzanne away. “We need to conf
er on our bet. We’ll catch you later.” Glancing at his watch, he shouted, “It’s time. Everybody get in your places.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the crunch of tires on gravel sounded out on the driveway. Unceremoniously pulling on Suzanne’s arm, Joe dragged them both to the front parlor, near the door and behind the sofa, underneath the sofa table. Suzanne bumped her head, knocking over a frame, which fell in her lap. She looked down at it and stopped breathing for a moment. It was a studio picture of the entire Warner family, minus baby Harry.
The children were all smiling except for Knoxie, who was frowning at her sister Sarah Frances. Joe leaned on the arm of the chair, with Amanda in his lap, while Maddie had an arm loosely draped around his shoulders. But the entire focus of the picture was the petite blond woman in a chair in the middle—the nucleus of the family. The woman glowed with contentment and ease with her life, and Suzanne felt a momentary stab of jealousy. She could never put into words what she thought Joe was thinking whenever he looked at her, but this picture would be as good a definition as any. She and Harriet Warner were worlds apart in not only looks, but also their place on the earth—a monarch butterfly and a luna moth. Each had been dropped into lives that were polar opposites, traveling along different longitude lines destined never to intersect.
Looking up, she caught Joe watching her. Wordlessly, she replaced the frame on the table and hunched back down underneath it.
The front doorknob rattled before the door opened. There was a moment of silence before everybody jumped out and yelled, “Happy birthday!” A deadly silence ensued before Sarah Frances burst into tears and ran up the stairs without a glance behind her.
Joe looked around the room, his face stricken. “Well, that was a resounding success.”
He headed toward the stairs before Cassie stopped him. “It’s a female hormone thing, Joe. Better leave this up to the women.” Waddling with as much grace as a hippopotamus trying to exit a swimming pool, Cassie made her slow ascent.