by Tamara Leigh
“Yes, and when you accepted Jesus, God became your comfort. Know where He is? Standin’ on the other side of that door you shut in His face, waiting for you to open up.” Henry looks to my hand clutching a fistful of shirt. “I noticed you took off your ring. I’m hopin’ that means your hand is on the knob and you’re gonna turn it and ask God back into your life.”
He’s hoping big.
A few wrinkles appear on Henry’s brow. “What’s the Band-Aid for? Did you cut yourself?”
Time to change the subject. “I appreciate your concern, Henry, but you aren’t in my shoes.”
“Not anymore.”
True. Though several times he’s tried to tell me about his first wife, but I’ve bordered on rude to prevent him from drawing a parallel between our lives.
“Can I tell you about her? Won’t take but a moment.”
I sigh. “All right.”
Momentarily resuming his side-to-side chewing, he looks out across his farm. “Long before that rascal daddy of yours met up with your mama, I lost my first wife after a year of marriage. It was hard, but I took comfort from the Lord. A couple years later, He gave me Lucy. And I love that woman—in the beginning, not as much, but soon enough more.”
I feel a twinge of hope.
“Told you it wouldn’t take but a moment.”
That’s it?
Henry checks his watch. “I’d best make sure the family has everything set up. When we throw open the gate in two hours, we gotta be ready for the crowds.” Mud-flecked boots clomp on the badly-in-need-of-paint planks, and he steps back inside the house.
I’m as relieved by the change of subject as his optimism. Since he and several other farmers first hired me years ago to cut corn mazes to supplement their farm income, day-trippers have been coming from as far as Charlotte to experience the family-oriented fall celebration our area offers. And Henry’s mazes are a favorite for all the extras he provides—hayrides, pumpkin patch, petting zoo, bonfires, plays, farm tours, and refreshments. And then there’s the canned goods that showcase his wife’s penchant for pickling just about anything that springs from the earth. “Therapy” she calls it, a way to relax after long days counseling troubled teens at the local high school.
Of course, there have been slim years when the crop yield is low or an early frost hits and there isn’t much out of which to fashion a maze, but we’ve always pulled something together. And when that isn’t enough to keep the farmers going, we turn to crop advertising, whereby my team transforms the leavings of sorry crops into company logos visible from the air—among them a Detroit carmaker, an airline, a chain of health-food stores, and a save-the-earth organization. Who would have guessed The Great Crop Circle Hoax would pave the way to today?
I follow Henry through his office, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where Lucy is setting out Mason jars full of corn, green beans, and the like.
“Looks good, Mrs. Martin,” I say as Henry kisses her proffered cheek in passing.
“Is good.” She winks at me as she adjusts her Monet-print apron. “I put a jar of pickled green tomatoes in your truck—extra spicy.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” She jerks her head toward the screen door that bangs behind her husband. “That maze is a beauty. Are you coming back for opening night?”
“Count on it.” But first I need to check on the progress of Bronson and Earla Biggs’s maze that opens tomorrow night. I wave my way out the door, call a good-bye to Henry, then climb in my truck. Sure enough, a Mason jar is in the driver’s seat. I pick it up. “Dinner.” Well, that and a hunk of cheese and homemade bread.
I turn the key in the ignition. As has happened several times recently, it takes a couple of attempts before the engine revives. I’m going to have to get that checked.
The air from the heat vents cause the invitation I earlier tossed on the dashboard to scoot across the cracked vinyl, and I grab it and once more consider the fancy writing. Another wedding at the Pickwick mansion. I’m happy for Piper and Axel. And for Uncle Obe, who will see his efforts to join his niece and godson realized before the rest of him slips away. Unless his dementia accelerates …
I flick my gaze to the “great overhead,” as Easton called it. “Surely You’ll give him another month, won’t You? Another year would be”—a blessing—“nice should Maggie and Reece and Devyn decide to become a real family, but at least another month. Please.” I swallow. “Yes, that was a prayer. I’m trying.” And that’s all I can do.
I put the truck in gear and head out. When I reach the end of the dirt road, my cell phone rings. Poised as I am to pull onto the pike, I have no intention of answering; however, a glance at the screen shows it’s the nursery. Business, then, and it would have to be important for Taggart or Allen to call me.
“Whatcha need?” I say.
“Nothin’.”
Nothing? “That you, Tag?”
“Yep.”
“I assume you have a good reason for interruptin’ my drive?”
“You got a call.”
“I do get them.”
“From a man.”
“I get those too.”
“This one didn’t want manure. He wanted to have dinner with you.”
Oh. “Who?”
“Um …”
“Tag!” Hold it. He’s not your secretary. He’s a man with a good work ethic, a deep sense of all things green, and a grudging willingness to answer the phone. So who is it? It wouldn’t be Boone, since I saw him earlier and he would have asked then. It wouldn’t be J.C. looking to discuss the estate, since he’s returned to Atlanta. So …
I remember Caleb’s kiss. “Does the name Caleb Merriman ring a bell?”
“Hmm. I might have heard a tinkle.”
It has to be him. “What did you tell him?”
“Said you were at the Martins’ finishing up the maze.”
Good thing it was Caleb who called and not J.C.
“He asked for your cell number, but since you don’t like to give it out, I said I’d pass on his message and for him to call back in ten minutes so I can give him your answer.”
I grab an old receipt and scrounge a stub of a pencil from the ashtray. “What’s his number?”
“Don’t know. I didn’t have a pen handy.”
Great. “When he calls back, tell him …” Not that I’ll have dinner with him. After all, he’s a “maybe,” meaning baby steps are the best he’ll get out of me. “Tell him if he wants to get together tonight, I’ll be at the Martins’ corn maze and we can grab a bite to eat there.”
“Will do. Bye.”
I flip the phone closed, pull onto the pike, and jump when the ring-tone sounds again. “Mercy!” This one I’m definitely passing on—Oh, it’s my mother. “Hi, Mama.”
“Hello, dear. Do you have a minute?”
“I do. Everything all right?”
After a hesitation, she says, “I’m not feelin’ up to myself—probably all this keepin’ after Birdie and Miles. Goodness, they’re a handful.”
And I haven’t been as much help as I should be. I’ve taken them to the park with Errol, to the movies, and even had them to my house for lunch, but I could help more.
“As for your father, he’s on a golfin’ and trapshooting kick, and he’s rarely home before I wrestle the children into bed.”
No surprise there.
“And I do mean wrestle. Bonnie has spoiled her little ones somethin’ terrible.” She laughs. “Takes after her mama.”
I know what she wants me to offer, but—Then step up to the plate and give back as she’s given to you. “How about I take them for a while?” Good thing I didn’t agree to dinner with Caleb. “We’ll go to the Martins’ fall festival and …” You promised. “… I’ll keep them overnight.”
She gasps. “You’d do that for me?”
It pinches that my offer should come as a surprise. “I will, and I’m sorry I didn’t offer sooner.”
“Oh, f
iddly-dee, you’re offerin’ now. That’s what counts.”
Nearing the Biggs’s property, I lift my foot from the gas pedal. “I’ll pick them up in a couple hours.”
“Couple?” Her voice breaks on the word.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mama?”
I hear her draw a shaky breath. “Fine. I just wanted clarification.”
No, she didn’t. “Actually, how about I drop by in an hour?”
“Wonderful. I’ll have them packed and waitin’ at the door.”
“See you then.” This time before I close my phone, I turn it off. If I’m going to squeeze into one hour what requires two, I can’t take any more interruptions.
This is fun. And I like the feel of the frequent smile stretched across my face, though it makes my facial muscles ache.
Once again, Miles goes from sight as he takes the path to the right.
“Don’t go too far,” I call as Birdie dances around me.
“I won’t!” Miles’s voice floats back among the cornstalks over which dusk has prevailed, causing dark to run up the stalks and ride the softly waving tassels. “I think I found the way out.”
Not yet he hasn’t. Still, I don’t correct him, knowing we’ll double back soon enough.
“It’s getting weal dark.” Birdie reaches for my hand.
I close her small fingers within mine. “The darker the better.”
“Why?” She looks at me with big eyes from which the coming night has stolen the color. Are they blue? No, brown. I think. I ought to know, especially since I’m determined to improve my aunting skills.
“The darker it gets, the harder the maze, and for those who like a bit of spookin’—”
“I don’t like spookin’.” Her feet drag. “Nobody’s gonna spook us, wight?”
“That’s right.” And that’s why I’m taking her brother and her through the maze before Henry opens the festival to the public. “No spookin’.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Meaning we’d better get a move on since it won’t be long now. When we entered the maze twenty minutes ago, dozens of vehicles had staked out parking spaces in the cut field below Henry’s house. By now there will be considerably more.
Birdie pulls her hand from mine, jumps in front of me, and raises her arms. “Carry me.”
“Now, Birdie, I was carryin’ you five minutes ago.” And my back aches for it. “You can walk.”
She shakes her curly blond head. “Carry me.”
I nearly give in, but considering how demanding she and her brother were of my mother when I picked them up, I’m determined to work on their manners. I prop my hands on my hips. “What’s the magic word?”
I may not know the exact color of her eyes, but there’s no mistaking the spark in them. “Carry me.”
“Birdie—”
“Carry me!”
I park my arms over my chest. “I didn’t hear the magic word.”
“Wrong way!” my nephew declares.
I peer over my shoulder. Yep, he doubled back and then some. “Would you like me to show you the way out?”
“No, I know where I’m going now.”
Hmm. “The big kids are coming through soon. We’d better hurry.” In that instant, the pole lights flicker on in the areas beyond the maze, lighting Miles just enough to put a face on his determination.
I turn back to Birdie. “Miles knows the way out. Let’s follow him.”
She takes a step toward him only to grab my sweater. “Carry me!”
“Say the magic word.”
She drags on my sweater, and I brace my feet to keep my balance. She’s stronger than she looks.
“Say ‘please’ and I’ll pick you up.”
“No!”
Miles hurries forward. “Come on, Birdie, I know the way to the slide.”
She shakes her head.
“Oh, brother!” Miles whispers something in her ear.
I sense her hesitation, and then she releases me. “I’ll say the magic word if you say the magic words. And they lived …”
Been here, done this—several times since their return to Pickwick. I clear my throat. “And they lived happily ever after.” See, most things become tolerable with practice. I still don’t agree with building up little girl hopes that grow into big girl heartaches, but I’ll concede the battle if it gets us out of the maze before the hoard descends in their spooky finery. And from the sound of excited voices, they’re just around the corner.
“Your turn, Birdie. What’s the magic word?”
“I don’t want up anymore.” She drops her arms and runs around me.
Shouting for her to wait, Miles follows.
I blow breath up my face. Well, I could be good at aunting given more time. And patience. And energy. And a halo.
Intent on getting Birdie and Miles home and down for the night, I start to follow but halt when remembrance catches up with me. Caleb is meeting me. In fact, he’s probably waiting beyond the maze. Fortunately, I doubt he’ll want to hang out at the festival, so maybe after a meeting over roasted corn I can excuse the twins and myself.
“Coming!” I call.
There’s no response, and a minute later, I accept I’m a leading contender for the World’s Worst Aunt award. And niece. I also let Uncle Obe get away from me at the dedication ceremony. “Miles! Birdie!”
No answer, and now that the maze is open to the public and the paths are filling, they aren’t likely to hear me over the voices rising from the cornstalks. Did they find their way out? Did they take the hay-chute slide down the hill?
Ahead, I hear a squeal overlapped by another squeal. That was of delight, and I’m sure it came from my niece and nephew.
I run down the path that curves left, then the middle path that ends in the Victorian house’s chimney. I peer down the dimly lit drop constructed of enormous sheets of thick landscaping plastic held in place by hay bales on either side of the six-foot-wide slide. As the visitors have yet to make it to the backside of the maze, I catch no movement other than the gentle sway of shadowy cornstalks.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “Miles! Birdie! Are you down there?”
Was that a giggle? Or the rustle of stalk on stalk?
“Come out now, hear?”
Still no answer. I know I have nothing to fear—that they’re enjoying the chase—but that doesn’t stop worry from prickling my back. They’re only five. It’s dark. And strangers are everywhere. Granted, they’re mostly families, but I’m no fool. “I can find them,” I say aloud. “They’ll be safe. So safe I’ll have a good reason to be mad.”
I hear the giggle-rustle again.
“Not funny!” I shout, then drop to my bottom, push off, and slide down the skittery plastic. It’s a fast ride, one I would normally enjoy, but my heart is pounding so hard it makes me dizzy. When I get my hands on—
If you get your hands on them.
“They’re all right. They’re just messin’ with me.”
I go sideways at the bottom of the slide, stagger to my feet, and listen for proof of Birdie and Miles. The only sounds are those of cornstalks talking to one another and the voices overhead.
“Birdie! Miles! Answer me right now!” I watch for movement on the path that winds uphill. Nothing. Maybe they are still in the maze. Without me.
I’m running again, all the while trying to speak into existence their safe return. And at some point, I start to pray—what, exactly, I don’t know, but “God” and “Lord” resound around me as I stretch my legs beyond their normal reach. Finally I crest the hill. People are everywhere, moving among stands, chatting, laughing, and tossing back sweet sticky things, blissfully unaware that two children are missing. “Let them be here, Lord,” I whisper as I sprint forward. “I won’t be mad. I’ll be a kinder, gentler aunt. Answer this one prayer. Please!”
Upon entering the throng, I pull breath to sound the alarm.
“I understand these rascals belong to you,” someon
e says. Not anyone I’m expecting, but I’ll take him.
14
I turn and there he stands. Hoping said “rascals” go by the names of Birdie and Miles, I look down. It’s them, eyes bright with mischief, mouths strung with mirth. The bane of my exis—
Mustn’t think like that. Must be grateful they’re safe, that they were only messing with me, that I really didn’t need to call on God.
Hello! You think He had no hand in returning them safe and sound? You merely spoke it into existence?
I don’t want to think about it now. I drop to my knees and pull my niece and nephew into my arms. “You scared me bad. Don’t ever, ever do that again.”
“It was fun,” Miles speaks right into my ear, making me wince. “We could see you, but you couldn’t see us.”
“We spooked you good,” Birdie says into my shoulder.
I draw back. “That kind of spookin’ is not nice. Your mama certainly wouldn’t like it.”
Miles shrugs. “She’s not here.”
“Yeah.” Birdie’s face rumples. “When’s she coming back?”
Why did I mention Bonnie? My mother warned that Birdie has begun falling apart over her parents’ absence, especially when tired.
She blinks, sniffs. “I miss her.”
“Don’t start crying.” Miles furrows his brow. “Be a big girl.”
She snaps her head around. “I’m not big. I’m little. So are you.”
He puffs up. “Am not! Little is for babies, so if you don’t wanna be called a baby, stop being one.”
Now I’m in for it. As long as they’re getting along and, thankfully, they more often do, I can handle them, but when they go at each other—
“How about some hot chocolate?”
J.C.’s suggestion surprises me, mostly because I forgot he was standing there. I look up at a figure fit with cargo pants and a light crew-neck sweater. Our eyes meet briefly before his stray down my crouched sneaker, jean, and T-shirt-clad self. When his gaze returns to my face, he’s smiling as if pleased at having peeled back another layer of my image. But then, who wears a dress to a harvest festival?
Miles ducks out from beneath my arm and turns to J.C. “I want hot chocolate! A big one. With marshmallows.”