Home to Walnut Ridge

by Diane Moody

  Then she saw Amanda’s name, and her heart skipped a beat. She pressed the link for her voicemail and listened, bracing herself. There was no way to skip directly down to Amanda’s message, so she listened to Morgan’s first message‌—‌a fabricated reason for calling, nothing more. She skipped through the rest of his messages, hearing only snippets of each until she came to Amanda’s.

  “Hey girl! Morgan said you’ve already left town on your vacation! I thought we were going to have coffee this morning before you left? Well, knowing me I got the times mixed up and missed my chance to say goodbye. I’ll miss you terribly, but I know you need some time at home. Call me sometime if you feel like chatting‌—‌oh, hold on. Someone wants to say hi.”

  “Oh no, I don’t‌—‌” Tracey stopped herself, realizing she was talking to a machine.

  “Hi, Taycee!”

  Tracey smiled with relief as she listened to the voice of three-year-old Aaron Thompson.

  “Where are you go? Come see me, Taycee. Come my house?”

  She pressed her lips together, visualizing the little guy in Amanda’s arms, his big brown eyes and thick head of blond hair so like his mother’s.

  “Mommy, why Taycee not talk?”

  “Because she’s gone bye-bye. Okay, Tracey, I’m jamming up your voicemail. Well, have fun, okay? I’m already missing you! Love you! Bye.”

  Tracey clicked off her phone and dropped it on the covers. “Oh Amanda . . . I hate this. Hate. It.”

  “HEY!” her dad yelled from down the hall. “Are you gonna sleep all day?”

  “I just might. Who wants to know?”

  “Nobody. Go back to sleep. But if you miss us, come on down to the smokehouse. The Elders are here. I left the coffee pot on. Grab a cup and come on down.”

  “We’ll see.”

  At the sound of his footsteps going down the long staircase, Tracey decided to get up and take a shower. Fifteen minutes later, with her wet hair piled up on her head with a clip, she threw on a pair of worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt she found in her closet. She made her way downstairs thinking she might make some toast before she went down the hill.

  “Hello.”

  She jumped, missed the last step, and grabbed the banister to keep from falling.

  “I’m so sorry!” he said, reaching for her elbow. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “No, it’s okay‌—‌I just didn’t know‍—‍”

  She looked up at the man behind the voice and found herself staring into the face of . . . an angel? Backlit with sunlight from the open side door, a bright aura seemed to surround him. For a moment, she wondered if she’d actually fallen, cracked her head open, died, and this was the angel Gabriel escorting her through the pearly gates.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

  “I, uh . . . I think so. Who are you?”

  “I’m Noah Bennett, a friend of Buddy’s.”

  She blinked. “Do I know you?”

  “No, we’ve never met. But I’m guessing you’re Tracey.”

  “Yeah, that’s me.” She tried to stand and he rose with her, his hand supporting her arm.

  “Listen, I’m sorry. We’re kind of used to coming and going around here. Buddy’s always told us to make ourselves at home.”

  “That definitely sounds like my dad.” She stopped and turned to face him as she connected the dots. “Oh, you must be one of the Elders.”

  His smile spread into deep dimples beneath a day’s growth of dark whiskers. His messy hair, the color of dark chocolate, wasn’t particularly long. His eyes were clear, somewhere between a green and light brown. Hazel?

  “That’s what he likes to call us. Which I’ve always thought was a bit strange considering‌—‍” he paused, his brows lifting. “Well, that whole church thing and all.” The angel’s face colored as he looked away.

  Tracey couldn’t help snickering. “Yeah, you’ve gotta love ‘that whole church thing.’ But please don’t be embarrassed on my account.” She rounded the corner heading into the kitchen. “It’s ancient history. Besides, Grace Church had deacons, not elders. I’m sure it’s some kind of personal joke that he dubs you all his Elders.”

  “Here, allow me.” He opened the cabinet and reached for two mugs, then filled them both from the large urn.

  She made her way to the refrigerator for cream. “What happened to Mr. Coffee and his pot?”

  He handed her a mug. “It was forever running out, so Buddy bought the urn. Said it was the kind they had at the church.”

  She poured cream into her coffee and offered him the carton, which he waved off. She put it back in the refrigerator. “You and the guys come here a lot?”

  He chuckled softly. “You could say that. We try to be respectful and not abuse his generosity. Especially for Alex’s sake.”

  “Good to know. I’m sure she appreciates that.” She could just imagine her sister playing hostess to a house full of ragamuffins. Although, she noted, the tall man leaning against the counter could never be called a ragamuffin. An angel? Definitely.

  Suddenly, she realized he was staring at her over his mug as he took a sip. “Yes, well,” she said, “I was about to head down to the smokehouse, so if you’ll excuse me.”

  “I’ll join you. I was on my way there when Buddy sent me up here for coffee. After you,” he said, holding his hand out like a perfect gentleman. He followed her through the hall then stepped ahead to open the screen door for her.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re most welcome. It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? I’ve always loved fall.”

  “Me too. In fact, it’s my favorite time of year at Walnut Ridge. Well, except maybe for winter when it snows.”

  “Ah, true. You can’t beat a Tennessee snowfall.”

  She pushed a renegade strand of hair out of her eyes and looked at him. “You don’t sound much like a Tennessean.”

  “That’s because I’m from Virginia.”

  “Oh?”

  “And Connecticut, North Carolina, and New York. Pretty much in that order.”

  “You move around a lot.”

  “Used to. Not so much anymore.”

  She pulled a bright yellow leaf from an American elm tree and twirled its short stem in her hand. “What brought you to Tennessee?”

  He looked away. “Oh, this and that. Needed a change of scenery, I suppose.”

  “Lot of that going around.” She smiled briefly then took a sip of coffee. “So do you just hang out here with the guys? Or do you have a job? Family?”

  “Actually, I do have a job. I’m a roadie, but I’m between gigs right now.”

  “A roadie? Like with musicians?”

  “Right. Tour buses and a different town every night. That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Wow, that’s got to be exciting, huh?”

  “Sometimes. It’s nice to see different parts of the world. But it can be rough at times. A drag, y’know? Same thing day after day, night after night.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because it’s what I do.”

  Wondering what that meant, she turned to face him. He smiled back at her, but it was the kind of smile a guy slaps on his face when he’s said all he’s going to say.

  “Noah!” Buddy shouted. “I was wondering what happened to you. I see you met my daughter.”

  As they approached the back of the old building, Noah finished the rest of his coffee, then said, “I had the pleasure, yes. Though I’m afraid I gave her a bit of a start.”

  Tracey stepped into her father’s outstretched arms. “Morning, Daddy.”

  “Morning, sweetheart.” He held her close, then kissed the top of her head. “Y’all come in and take a look. Alex is so excited, she’s like a kid in a candy shop. Except there’s no candy. Just a lot of dust and ancient cobwebs.”

  They followed him through the rustic back door. She could already smell the familiar smoky scent. “Daddy, how long’s it been
since they stopped curing meat in here?”

  “Ah, this old shack hasn’t been used for smoking meat since the fifties, I guess. Long before you were born.”

  “Maybe so, but I sure remember the smell. Always makes me think of Granddaddy’s barbecues. Like he used to say, ‘that was some good eatin’.”

  Alex came through the front door with several guys. She brushed her hands on her jeans. “Tracey! What do you think? Isn’t it perfect?”

  “Yeah, I mean, it needs a lot of work, but I can see some possibilities.”

  “Where are my manners?” she said. “Have you met the Elders yet?”

  “She met Noah up at the house,” Buddy said. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my guys. This half-pint here is Earl Givens, but we call him Stump.”

  Tracey shook hands as her eyes trailed the long way up to the face of a gentle giant. He had to be at least six-eight, maybe six-ten, with the breadth to support every inch. “Well, hello up there. I’m Tracey. Nice to meet you, Earl.” He pulled his hat off which had covered a mass of thick, black-brown hair. His beard covered most of his face and reached somewhere near mid-chest.

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Miss Tracey. It’s okay if you wanna call me Stump. It don’t matter none to me.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And this good man here is Greg Sells. He goes by Gristle.”

  “Gristle?” Tracey asked as she shook hands with the young African-American.

  “My mama called me that ev’ since I was just a lil’ snot-nosed kid. Said I was always tough like that chewy stuff you sometimes get on a steak. Not that we ever ate no steak. Mamma just liked ev’body thinkin’ we dined on t-bones and rib-eyes. Name just stuck.”

  “Well, Gristle, if it’s good enough for your mama, it’s fine by me. Nice to meet you.”

  “You ev’ bit as pretty as they says you was.”

  “Now, don’t you start charmin’ my girl like that, Gristle,” Buddy said. “And certainly not while I’m standing right here.”

  “Trace, you’ll have to watch out for Gristle,” Alex chimed in. “He could charm the trunk off an elephant.”

  “Ah, go on. Y’all know I’m just playin’ w’cha.”

  Buddy tossed Gristle a pair of work gloves then glanced back at Tracey. “You’ll never find a man more gifted with a saw. Puts on his tunes and I mean, he tears it up.” Buddy turned to the last one, a stocky young man with a shock of wild red hair. “And this is Hank Biddle.”

  He reminded her of the troll dolls they sold at flea markets. Tracey took his outstretched hand. “Wait‌—‌let me guess. They call you Red, right?”

  “No ma’am,” he said, looking somewhat bewildered. “Folks just call me Hank Biddle.”

  “Well. Okay then, Hank Biddle, nice to make your acquaintance.”

  He didn’t respond. Just stared at her like she’d sprouted a third eye on her forehead.

  “Hank’s your man if you need any sweeping,” Buddy added, patting the redhead on his shoulder. “He’s got a real knack for knowing how to clean things up in a jiffy. We couldn’t manage without him.”

  “I was head of maintenance at State,” he announced.

  “Really? I had lots of friends who went to State,” Tracey said.

  His brows drew close together, but he said nothing.

  “Ah, she means Tennessee State University,” Gristle said. “Nah, Miss Tracey, he wadn’t at no college. He was at‍—‍”

  “Never mind that, Gristle,” Buddy interrupted. “How about you and Stump go take a look outside and see which limbs need to be trimmed off that big elm tree.”

  “Sho’nuff, Buddy. We on it.”

  “Noah, come tell us what you think,” Alex said. “Any ideas for turning this decrepit old building into a quaint little shop with a workroom toward the back?”

  For the next hour, they tossed around ideas, brainstorming how to best use the space available. Tracey remembered her grandfather once telling her that the original smokehouse, a stone’s throw from the kitchen wing at Walnut Ridge, was used only for the family. The “new” larger smokehouse where they now stood, was added a few years later when the plantation had begun to flourish. By that time, the family had sold off part of Walnut Ridge to a friend in need. As a result, the spacious smokehouse sat on the county road that bordered the east property line. Then, almost a century later during the depression, Hiram Collins doubled the size of the building. With so many of the townspeople and those in neighboring counties in need, he wanted a place where folks could stop by and pick up a slab of bacon or some ground beef or stew meat.

  Tracey loved the story, picturing her great, great grandfather graciously providing for those who had little or nothing. “God doesn’t bless us to spoil us,” he was known for saying. “He blesses us so that we might bless others.” Looking at the men around her, it seemed Buddy Collins was carrying on the family legacy. Tracey felt a lump in her throat, so filled with love for her father and the incredible miracle that had taken place in his own life. Here, decades later, Buddy blessed his Elders and by doing so, showed them how to bless others.

  “Those are some great ideas, Noah,” Alex said, interrupting Tracey’s thoughts. “When do you think y’all might get started?”

  He scratched his head for a moment. “How about this afternoon?”

  Chapter 5

  Noah let himself in the back door of the cottage and tossed his keys on the kitchen table. He grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter and took a bite as he kicked off his boots. The face of Buddy’s younger daughter drifted into mind. Funny, he’d never given much thought to the one called Tracey Jo who worked in Washington. He wasn’t sure why he’d assumed she was the nerdy type, all caught up in politics. He realized she was anything but nerdy. Still, she was just home for a week or two. He doubted he’d see much more of her.

  His mind switched gears, brimming with ideas for the smokehouse conversion. When Buddy first mentioned the idea, he wasn’t sure if he should commit to helping. He still hadn’t heard back from Dawson’s people about the concerts they had scheduled between now and the holidays. Last he heard, Beau Dawson was having some kind of problem with his vocal cords and his doctors hadn’t signed off for him to go back on the road yet. Noah wondered if the problem was indeed medical or if Dawson was having marital problems again.

  None of it mattered to Noah. He wasn’t invested in their lives, as such. He was nothing more than hired help. Most folks in the business just knew him as “Beau Dawson’s guitar guy” and didn’t bother with his name. Which suited Noah just fine. He’d lived in that world of who’s-who once and didn’t miss it.

  He iced down a glass of water and took a seat on the sofa, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. He really liked it here at the cottage. When Buddy first offered the place to him, he told him thanks but no thanks. At the time, he’d been unattached from anyone and anything for quite a while. He wasn’t ready to be tied down, least of all to a place of his own. Then, the more he thought about it, the more the idea grew on him.

  He’d liked Buddy from the first time they met on a weekend bike trip over to the Blue Ridge Mountains. A couple of the other roadies were Harley riders and invited him on one of their weekend trips. Noah had learned to love the open road and never passed up a chance to ride. On that particular trip, he’d been curious about the guy everyone called Buddy. He seemed genuine, but you never know about the religious ones. Buddy wasn’t obnoxious about all that, but it slipped into conversation now and then. For some reason, coming from this guy with the fun-loving smile and white ponytail, it seemed natural. Just a part of who he was.

  Noah sunk down into the leather sofa and rested his head against the cushion. His mind drifted back to that first night they’d talked beside a fire pit on the campground where they stopped for the night. Buddy had asked him where he was from. He’d mentioned growing up in Virginia, and how much he loved playing sports. Undergraduate degree from Florida State and his graduate wo
rk at Harvard Law School.

  “Harvard!” Buddy had marveled. “Didn’t realize I was in the presence of an Ivy Leaguer.”

  “I keep that to myself most of the time,” Noah had said. “That’s all ancient history now.”

  “Really? You never practiced law after graduating?”

  “I did. For a while.”

  “Where was that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “New York City. I had a lot of doors opened to me along the way.”

  Buddy had waited, probably expecting some kind of explanation. Noah hesitated, then realized the guy seemed sincerely interested. And so he began telling him his story. About his successes on Wall Street as a finance attorney. About his wife who he’d married the day after graduation from law school. About their life together in the Big Apple.

  And then he’d stopped. The break in his voice seemed as good a sign as any to draw the line. Why burden a stranger with all that?

  “Noah, you probably don’t know this, but I used to be a pastor.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not doing that anymore, but I still have a good ear, and I still do a good bit of counseling now and then. Which means, my friend, I still know how to tell when someone’s burdened with heartache.” He’d leveled his gaze at Noah. “So if you need someone to talk to, son, I’d be honored to listen.”

  Noah remembered staring at Buddy, seeing the kindness in his eyes as the reflection of the fire danced around them. He had a feeling the man looking at him could surely see all the way to his soul.

  “Melissa . . .” he’d whispered.

  “Your wife?”

  Noah nodded because he couldn’t speak. Buddy seemed to have all the time in the world. When Noah dug in his pocket for his handkerchief, Buddy had patted his knee. As if to say take as long as you need. When he could, he tried again.

  He told Buddy of the April day he’d been tied up in court with a judge who had a serious God-complex. Noah knew if he had left, the case would be thrown out, and his firm would reassign him to the mailroom. He’d texted Melissa, apologizing profusely and promising he’d meet her at the address she’d sent him as soon as he could. She had found the perfect loft for them to buy in Soho, and wanted him to see it so they could make an offer before someone else snapped it up. Hopefully, they’d wait until he got there. Her text came back immediately‌—‌HURRY!