The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  I was polite, but I didn’t really want to talk. I just wanted to replay the evening in my mind, to burn it all into my memory.

  As we neared Lucille’s house, I asked the men to let me off a block away. It was nearly six o’clock in the morning, and there was a real risk someone would see me. I made up my mind to say I’d awakened early and gone for a walk if I ran into anyone, but I made it back to the house without incident. I let myself in with my key. To my almost unimaginable good luck, both Marge and Lucille were still asleep.

  I crept into bed, and although an hour remained before I had to be up for work, I couldn’t doze off. The thought that I’d been a mile or more up in the sky chased through my veins. It was a toss-up which thrilled me more: the hour’s ride in the B-24, or the fact I’d been with Joe.

  14

  hope

  Eddie had arranged for both occupational and physical therapists to work with Gran a few times a week, and the next morning, one of them arrived as Gran and I were finishing breakfast. Gran shooed me out of the house, so I grabbed the sketch of the girls’ room I’d stayed up half the night drawing and headed to a coffee shop I’d spotted downtown.

  It was located in what had once been the newspaper office on the town square, and it had a green-and-white-striped awning with The Daily Grind emblazoned in black script. The rich scent of coffee enveloped me as I opened the door. The interior was rustic and funky, with high ceilings, exposed beams, and a redbrick back wall.

  Most of the tables were full, and several people were in line ahead of me. A pretty redhead about my age worked behind the counter. She was petite and slender, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, over which she wore a green restaurant bib apron emblazoned with the cafe’s logo. She chatted with the customers as she filled their orders, apparently well acquainted with them all.

  She handed a large paper cup in a cardboard sleeve to the man in front of me. “There you go, Mike. Say hello to Joan for me.”

  He nodded. “Sure will. Do the same to Sam.”

  She turned her attention to me, then broke into a big smile. “Hey, you’re Adelaide McCauley’s granddaughter, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, trying to place her. So many people had come by the hospital and the house to visit Gran that it was hard to keep track of them, but surely I’d remember meeting such a striking redhead.

  My consternation must have shown on my face, because she gave me a reassuring smile. “We haven’t met. I recognized you from all the descriptions. This is a small town, so any new person is a hot topic.” She leaned over the counter and held out her hand. “I’m Kirsten Deval.”

  I shook her hand. “Hope Stevens. Nice to meet you.”

  “What can I get you?”

  I ordered a skinny cappuccino.

  “Your grandmother practically saved my life when I was in fourth grade,” she said, pulling a bottle of skim milk from an under-counter fridge.

  “Oh?”

  Her auburn ponytail bobbed as she nodded. “She took all the class pictures when I was in elementary school. I had the wildest, frizziest red hair you’ve ever seen, and even though I always wore it in a ponytail or pigtails, it still looked like a hot mess.” She poured a little milk into a metal pitcher. “I lost my mother when I was six, and my father—well, he didn’t know much about girls’ hair, and after he fell and hurt his back, we didn’t have money for extras for beauty salon visits. Your grandmother heard one of the kids call me Cheeto Head—which, believe me, was one of the nicer names I was called.”

  She put the milk back in the refrigerator. “Well, Miss Addie made a big deal out of complimenting me in front of everyone, saying how my hair was just like some famous actress’s, and she could see that I was going to look just like her when I grew up. It immediately made me feel better. Then that night, she dropped by our house.”

  Kirsten scooped espresso grounds out of a can into the metal cappuccino basket, then fitted it onto the machine. “She talked to my dad—said she’d been struck by my similarity to her daughter who’d moved away, and how much she missed her, and that her daughter had left her blow-dryer and brush behind, and would he mind if she gave it to me and showed me how to use it.

  “My dad was proud—oh, he wouldn’t take any charity from anyone!—but your grandmother made him feel as if he was doing her a favor. So she gave me a round brush and a blow-dryer and showed me how to use them—and a few weeks later, she somehow arranged for me to ‘win’ a free haircut at the local salon every two months for the next five years through a PTA drawing. I’ve never forgotten her kindness.”

  I’d always known Gran was thoughtful and generous, but the tale touched my heart. Especially considering that my mother’s hair was fine, straight, and light brown—not at all like Kirsten’s. “Gran’s pretty amazing, all right.”

  “She sure is. I was so sorry to hear about her fall. I visited her while she was in the hospital, but I don’t think she knew who I was.” She frothed the milk, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the espresso machine. “How’s she doing? Is she still planning to move to California?”

  I filled her in on Gran’s progress as she poured the espresso into a cup, then scooped milk foam on top. “At the rate we’re going through her things, though, it’ll take a year or more.”

  She handed me the steaming mug. “Maybe that’s her plan. I’m sure she enjoys your company.”

  “And I enjoy hers—but she’s actually eager to move. She talks to Eddie every night, and she’s excited about living by the ocean.” I took a sip of foam. “That’s one of the wonderful things about Gran. She’s always so enthusiastic about whatever’s happening next.”

  Kirsten nodded. “Her enthusiasm’s motivated a lot of good in this community.” She lifted up a pamphlet from a stack on the counter. “She was one of the founders of this.”

  I read the title. “‘Friends of the Forest?’”

  She nodded. “It’s a reforestation program to help save the wetlands. It started with Miss Addie getting the city to collect used Christmas trees and use them to stop coastal erosion along Lake Pontchartrain. She’d read about the state doing that along the Gulf, and saw no reason why it couldn’t work along the lake, as well.”

  I knew Gran had started the Christmas tree project, but I didn’t know her efforts had spawned a whole year-round organization. I glanced over the brochure. “You plant trees in the wetlands?”

  She nodded. “Once a month during the spring and fall. We’re going out this Saturday. You should join us.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The nature preserve just outside of town. We’ll meet here at seven and drive out together. We’ll be done by nine or nine thirty. Your grandmother always used to go. I’m sure she’d love for you to participate.”

  She was right—and I loved the idea of supporting a cause Gran had originated. I nodded. “I’ll try to make it.”

  “Great!” Leaning her hip against the counter, she cocked her head and looked at me quizzically. “So what’s happening with the mural at Matt’s place?”

  “You know about that?”

  She nodded.

  Once again, I’d underestimated the power of the Wedding Tree grapevine. “I just looked at the room last night.” I held up my sketchbook. “I’m working up some ideas.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Can I see what you’ve got so far?”

  “Well, it’s still rough, but . . .” I opened the sketchbook and showed her.

  She drew in an admiring breath. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “Everything the girls showed me was Disney, and this is a completely different style,” I said. “I hope they’ll like it.”

  “They’ll love it! You did all this last night?”

  I nodded. “I work fast.” Embarrassingly fast, my ex used to say. Real art, he’d repeatedly told me, took time.

  “This is
fabulous!” She looked up from the sketch. “Do you have any interest in painting a mural in here? I’m opening the back room, and I’d love to have a historical drawing of the town square on one of the walls. It would be so great to have the faces of local people in it, maybe wearing old-timey clothing like their ancestors wore. I’m sure the stores that you’d draw would sponsor it.”

  Potential angles and images immediately popped into my head. A wave of excitement surged through me. I tamped it down. “I don’t know how long the one at Matt’s house will take, and I’ve barely gotten started on going through my grandmother’s things.”

  “Well, think about it. If you have time and you’re interested, I would love it. I’m sure the merchants on the square would, too. I’d make sure you were very well compensated.”

  The bells over the door jangled. I turned to see Jillian walk in. I lifted my hand in a wave, and she froze just inside the doorway.

  “Hey there, Jill,” called Kirsten.

  She smiled and moved stiffly toward the counter. “Hi, Kirsten.” She nodded at me. “Hope.”

  “Want your usual?” Kirsten asked.

  “No, thanks. Just black coffee today.”

  “Wow, you’re really sticking to your diet,” Kirsten observed.

  “Yes, well . . .” She nodded, her hands smoothing her skirt. “I’m trying.”

  “Whatever you’re doing sure is working.” Kirsten poured a large paper cup, put on a lid, and handed it to Jillian. “You look wonderful.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hope was just showing me a sketch of the mural for Sophie and Zoey’s room.”

  “Is that a fact.” I expected Jillian to ask to see it, but she just dug in her purse and paid for her coffee. “I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for school. Nice seeing you both.” She gathered up her drink and turned to leave.

  “Will I see you at Matt’s later?” I called after her.

  “I—I’m not sure. I have a parent meeting after school.” She tossed out a quick “good-bye” over her shoulder and scurried out of the coffee shop.

  “I don’t think she much likes me,” I said as the door closed behind her.

  “Oh, that’s just Jillian. She’s a little socially awkward—the exact opposite of her sister that way.”

  “Oh yeah?” I was curious about Matt’s late wife.

  Kirsten nodded and wiped down the counter. “Christine never met a stranger. She was one of those people that others just gravitate to, you know? And Jillian—well, she just doesn’t have the gift of gab.”

  “What’s the story with her and Matt?”

  “She’s his sister-in-law.”

  “I got the impression there was something more.”

  “Really?” She considered it for a moment. “Nah. I just don’t see it. Although I’m pretty sure Jillian would be open to the idea. What single girl wouldn’t be, right?”

  I lifted my shoulders and took a sip of cappuccino.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Are you single?”

  “Divorced.” It still felt like a failure, saying it. “You?”

  “I’m married, though you wouldn’t know it from the amount of time my husband and I are together.” She grabbed a white bar towel and wiped down the counter. “Right now he’s in the North Sea. Before that, he was off the coast of Africa.”

  “Is he in the service?”

  “He was, but not anymore. Now he’s the captain of a supply ship that largely works on military contracts. Did you see that movie Captain Phillips? Well, that’s him—except his boat has guns.”

  “Wow. Do you ever go with him?”

  “No passengers allowed.” Her face grew tight. “He keeps saying he’s going to quit, but then he always signs up for another voyage.”

  Uh-oh. Sounded like trouble in paradise.

  The door jangled and three chattering middle-aged women came in, followed by two men in ball caps advertising the local feedstore. I picked up my coffee and sketchbook. “I’d better let you get to work—and I’d better do that myself.”

  Kirsten smiled. “So nice to meet you. And please try to join us on Saturday! It’ll be a good time. The carpool group is a bunch of women about our age.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” I said. I carried my cappuccino to a table in the corner, got out my pencils, and started detailing stones on an ivory tower.

  15

  adelaide

  I hated the idea of someone bathing me. I needed help stepping over the side of the tub and getting seated in that shower chair from the medical equipment store, though, and I could no longer reach my back or my feet. Thank heavens the aide lets me wash my personal parts myself so I can cling to a shred of dignity.

  By the time she’d helped me dry off and dress, Hope was back. Through the window, I watched her lug a trash can full of flattened empty boxes and garbage bags to the curb. At my request, the aide settled me in my bedroom rocker, then left the room.

  “Let’s go through my closet,” I said when Hope came back inside and stuck her head in my room.

  “Oh boy!” She pulled out her little portable phone—they call them cell phones, though I don’t know why. I think they should call them camera phones because they can take pictures.“I’ve been looking forward to this. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take pictures of your clothes as we bring them out. Then I can send an e-mail to a vintage store in Chicago or upload them on eBay.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, but I loved the idea of taking photos of my clothes. I should have done that years ago myself.

  “Whatever you want to do is fine, dear. I thought that going through my closet would help me remember the things I need to tell you, because I can recall what I was wearing when special things happened.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “Although I’m afraid I can’t remember what we were talking about when we left off.”

  “You’d just told me about the night Joe took you up in the bomber.”

  “Oh yes. Yes, indeed! Oh, that was quite an experience. Pull out that green plaid skirt at the back.”

  She dug around in my closet. “This one?”

  “Yes. That’s what I was wearing that night.”

  She took a picture of it with her phone camera, then did something with her thumbs.

  “There’s a blue-and-white polka-dot dress in there, with a fabric-covered belt. Do you see it?”

  She rooted around and pulled it out. It had a V-neck, short sleeves, and navy buttons down the front. She hung it on the door and took a photo.

  “Did you ever get your camera back?” Hope asked.

  “What?”

  She pulled the dress off the door and handed it to me. “You said you gave your camera to Kevin or Carl that night.”

  “Oh!” A scrap of the past floated by like flotsam. “Yes. Yes, I did. He gave it back to me when he let me out of the car that morning.”

  “Do you have any pictures of Joe?”

  I nodded. “Not taken that night, but yes, I have a few.”

  “I’d love to see them. Where are they?”

  I drew a blank. I frowned and tried to think. Nope. Nothing came. “I can’t seem to recall at the moment. I’m sure it will come to me later.” At least, I hoped it would. I knew I’d put them somewhere Charlie couldn’t find them, but since my fall, I can’t recollect exactly where.

  I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the past swirl and thicken around me like smoke, until it was something I seemed to breathe. Once again, I heard myself talking.

  1943

  I had the hardest time keeping quiet about that plane ride the next day—especially around Marge. I didn’t think I could keep my mouth shut—and I was totally exhausted anyway, so I pretended to be sick on Tuesday and spent the day in bed.

  By Wednesday, it all seemed like a dream. I was beginning to d
oubt my sanity. Had it really happened, or had I made it all up? Why hadn’t I heard from Joe?

  I dressed in that polka-dot dress and went to work, and that made it seem more unreal—going on as before, as though nothing as life changing as flying through the sky had occurred. I was assigned to the darkroom that morning, and it only added to my gloom. I was gathering up the police beat photographer’s film from the night before when the senior editor, a roly-poly man named Thomas Coppler, called my name.

  I turned and looked at him, startled, as he waddled toward me. He was three layers of management above my supervisor; I didn’t think he even knew who I was. He had wavy gray hair, a coarse salt-and-pepper mustache, and a big belly. He liked to wear knitted sweater-vests, and the one he wore on that particular day was brown and covered with what looked like cake crumbs. “You’ve got a phone call,” he said.

  I must have looked surprised. I’d never received a call at work.

  “From your cousin.” His eyes were soft and sympathetic, in a way that conveyed bad news. “You can take it at my desk.”

  I followed him across the newsroom, my heart racing, my mind scanning through my cousins. I had five of them, but I wasn’t particularly close to any of them. If something had happened to a member of my family, my parents would call—unless something happened to my parents. In that case, though, my grandmother or Aunt Beula would have called. Unless something had happened to them, as well, and then . . .

  The phone was lying on his desk, off the hook. He handed it to me. My hand shook as I lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Pretend I’m giving you bad news,” said a deep, smooth baritone. Joe. My heart stopped for a second, then beat double time.