Home to Big Stone Gap
Page 26
“Yeah?”
“I have a question.”
“Sure.”
“Who’s Annie?”
Jack is surprised, then he smiles. “Why do you ask?”
“You wrote her name down when you thought you were dying.”
“I did, huh?”
“Yes, you did. It’s on a list you wrote on a scrap of paper in the hospital. It’s under your business cards in the sock drawer.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.”
“So you read the list.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to snoop. It was with your personal effects when they took you into surgery.”
“Okay, you get a pass. But I don’t read your mail, nor would I read any lists, or a diary if you kept one.”
“I know, I know. I’m terrible.” I reach back and adjust my pillow before I settle back into Jack’s arms for more of that kissing. He rolls on top of me. “So, who’s Annie?”
“That’s a real romance killer, to bring up the name of another woman when I’m trying to make love to my wife.”
“Imagine how I feel.”
“I’m trying.”
I take his hands off of my behind. “Well, who is she?”
“Can’t I have a secret?”
“You can have all the secrets you want. Just not that one.”
“I see.”
“This one is a deal breaker.” I hold my ground. After all, I’ve gone this far.
Jack rolls off of me and onto his back. He looks at the ceiling. My heart begins to beat faster and then faster still. I’m losing him again. I ask too many questions. The man was kissing me like the first time, and I ruined it. Is a good marriage about the things we don’t say? Why do I have to know everything about everything? Will I ever learn to leave well enough alone, to let the little things go? Who cares about Annie, anyhow? He didn’t marry her, he married me. Isn’t he allowed to have a girl he thinks about from time to time without compromising our relationship? After all, I never talk about Pete Rutledge. He’s my little escape-valve fantasy when I need one; why shouldn’t my husband have one too?
“Annie was a great beauty,” he begins.
“I figured.” My stomach turns. I kick myself for not leaving well enough alone.
Jack takes my hand. I’m not sure I want him to. “You really want to know?”
I nod that I do, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t need to approve of this Annie in his fantasy harem. It’s enough agitation to run into Karen Bell from time to time. It’s like finding a rat in your bathtub—I don’t know if it’s her intentions for my husband that scare me or her year-round tan, but whatever it is, I get rattled whenever I see her.
“Annie was my golden retriever when I was ten years old. She got sick and had to be put down one weekend when we were visiting family. She was buried down in Pennington at my aunt’s farm. I had a stone made for her grave. But it always bothered me that she wasn’t buried in Cracker’s Neck Holler. So one of the things I always meant to do was move her up here. She used to run in the woods out back and go exploring up in the hills with me for hours. We’d get lost in there, collecting bugs and mushrooms and things. Since I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, she was sort of the world to me. I still think about her. May sound funny, but losing her, such a good dog, well, it was like losing a member of my family.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
“That was Annie.”
“I’m sorry.” I begin to cry.
“You didn’t even know her.” Jack rips a tissue out of the holder on the nightstand and hands it to me. Then he holds me close.
“I’m not crying about Annie.”
“Then what?”
“If we both stay healthy and we get more time—you know, as husband and wife—will we use the time to keep learning things about each other? Or will we use the time just trying to get along and keep the peace?”
“Does it matter? Does it have to be one or the other?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t. You just have to live, Ave, and let life unfold. Say what you mean. You can’t always think about what you’ve lost, or what you don’t have, or what you didn’t get. Because when you do that, you’re missing out on the now. I’m here with you tonight, but I can’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow or a year from now—or if you will be. I don’t care how many plans you make, you can’t know anything for sure either. We shouldn’t let a day go by when we don’t stop and think about what we are to each other and how the best part of that is the part that changes. That’s the mystery. And that’s the part of people that’s divine. Accepting the unknown and trusting it.”
“How do you know this?”
Jack smiles. “Because I almost lost everything. And I thought about what I’d be if you didn’t love me.”
“And what were you?”
“I wouldn’t have ever known real joy or real sadness. I was angry at you for bringing sadness sometimes, and that’s just human. It wasn’t your fault, but when things went terribly wrong, I looked around to blame somebody. It didn’t mean I loved you less—it meant that we had something to learn together, and if we just hung on, we’d get through it. You’ve always come through. When I needed it most, you took care of me. No woman ever took care of a man the way you’ve taken care of me—except maybe the way my mama took care of my pa. I waited so long to get married because I wasn’t sure that even existed. And here you are. You did not disappoint. I married a good wife who knew how to love me and my children. You brought two angels to my life: Etta was joy, and Joe—Joe was the sadness. And both of them, for as long as we had them here, made me a better man. Not a small thing.”
Sometimes, for a man of very few words, my husband chooses the exact right ones. As he kisses me again, I remember Scotland, how I felt when Etta told us about the baby, and picture my husband as a ten-year-old boy with Annie at his side as he explored the creeks, roads, and back woods of this mountain. As for the bridge, Jack needed to build it, if only to know the deep river that runs through Cracker’s Neck Holler. May it never end.
Acknowledgments
Gregory D. Cantrell was my first writing teacher and a Renaissance man, mountain style. When I was growing up in Big Stone Gap, the outside world seemed galaxies away, but Mr. Cantrell brought it into the classroom. He was hip, cutting edge, funny, and wise, and a champion to his students. He died on November 30, 2004, at the age of fifty-five. He adored his wife, Sue, and his children, Stephen, Emily, David, and Daniel. I owe my start as a writer to him.
At mighty Random House, with bells and whistles I thank Gina Centrello and her dynamic and talented team: my wonderful editor, Jennifer Hershey; the superb Laura Ford; the great Kim Hovey; my magnificent publicist, Kate Blum; the world’s best production editor, Beth Pearson; and the brilliant designer, Robin Schiff. More gratitude to: Libby McGuire, Tom Perry, Megan Fishmann, Tatiana Sayig, Camille Dewing-Vallejo, Grant Neumann, Rachel Bernstein, Georgia Liebman, Sanyu Dillon, Jane Von Mehren, Joelle Dieu, Carol Schneider, Cindy Murray, Allyson Pearl (nobody works harder), Stacey Witcraft, Vicki Wong, Christine Cabello, Avideh Bashirrad, Beth Thomas, Jack Perry, Stacy Rockwood-Chen, and Alyson Forbes.
At Random Audio, thank you to Amanda D’Acierno and my fabulous producer on seven recordings, Sherry Huber, and her team of Lynn Lauber and Aaron Blank.
At William Morris, my love and thanks to the lovely powerhouse Suzanne Gluck and the equally lovely Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, as well as to Cara Stein, Eugenie Furniss, Leora Bloch Rosenberg, Georgia Cool, Mac Hawkins, Judith Berger, Raffaella DeAngelis, Andy McNichol, Tracy Fisher, Candace Finn, Michelle Feehan, Caroline Michel, Alice Ellerby, Alicia Gordon, Lindsey Shapiro, Lauren Heller Whitney, Lisa Grubka, Bari Zibrak, and Rowan Lawton. My thanks to my longtime beloved friend and agent Nancy Josephson, Jill Holwager, Ellen Sushko, Richie Kern, and Josh Meltzer.
Thank you in the land of movies to the fabulous Susan Cartsonis and Roz Weisberg of St
oreFront Pictures, the wonderful Julie Durk, and the great Lou Pitt.
Thank you, Allison Roche, my amazing assistant. For the scrumptious recipes and testing of those dishes, thank you, Cindy Ashley, Craig Fissé, Iva Lou Daugherty Johnson, Shorty Johnson, Margie Mabe, and Karen Kilgore Hall.
My gratitude to the glorious pond leapers: Ian Chapman, Suzanne Baboneau, Rochelle Venables, and the irrepressible and irreplaceable Nigel Stoneman. Thank you to my team in South Africa: Jonathan Ball, Anika Ebrahim, and Jane Rankin. In magical Scotland, thank you to Fiona Christie and Elly Rothnie. Marjory Clark, your architectural knowledge was so helpful. Julie Roche, thank you for your nursing expertise.
Michael Patrick King, thank you for your massive and available shoulders. More gratitude and love to Larry Sanitsky, Todd Doughty, Jake and Jean Morrissey, Meryl Poster, and Lee Boudreaux.
Ann Godoff, thank you for opening the door to my literary career.
Elena Nachmanoff and Dianne Festa, I owe you each a big purse. More undying gratitude to Mary Testa, Thomas Dyja, Sister Karol Jackowski, Debra McGuire, Ruth Pomerance, Wiley Hausam, Brownie Polly III, Richard and Dana Kirshenbaum, Ellen Tierney and Jack Hodgins.
And my thanks and love to the people of Big Stone Gap, my family and friends, whom I treasure beyond any words I could write herein.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ADRIANA TRIGIANI is an award-winning playwright, television writer, and documentary filmmaker. The author of the bestselling Big Stone Gap series and the New York Times bestselling novels Lucia, Lucia, The Queen of the Big Time, and Rococo, she has been published in twenty-two countries around the world. Trigiani has written the screenplay for the movie Big Stone Gap, which she will also direct. She lives in New York City with her husband and daughter and can be reached at www.adrianatrigiani.com.
ALSO BY ADRIANA TRIGIANI
FICTION
Big Stone Gap
Big Cherry Holler
Milk Glass Moon
Lucia, Lucia
The Queen of the Big Time
Rococo
NONFICTION
Cooking with My Sisters (co-author)
Home to Big Stone Gap is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by The Glory of Everything Company
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Trigiani, Adriana.
Home to Big Stone Gap: a novel / Adriana Trigiani.
p. cm.
1. Big Stone Gap (Va.)—Fiction. 2. Mountain life—Fiction.
3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3570.R459R48 2006
803'.54—dc22 2006049301
www.atrandom.com
eISBN: 978-1-58836-563-7
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