The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  “Would you make them, or would we need to find someone to sew?” I asked.

  “Oh, I can do it. Gran taught me how.” She grinned at the girls. “So what do you think?”

  Zoey clasped her hands. “It’s splendid-did.”

  I looked at Hope and saw her stifling a laugh. It felt good, enjoying a silent, isn’t-she-adorable moment with her.

  “What about the other walls?” Sophie asked.

  “Good question.” Hope motioned to the dormer window with the built-in window seat. “This wall really just needs drapes and a cushion to match the canopies. We’d paint the wall to look like stone, so it would feel like we’re inside a castle room. We’d do the same on this wall over here . . .” She motioned to their bureaus. “And I thought we might also paint a tapestry on it.” She flipped her sketchbook to another page. “Like this.”

  “Oooh,” Sophie breathed.

  Hope motioned to the wall with the closet. “Over here, all we need to do is the stone treatment over, between, and around the doors.” She showed another sketch.

  The girls oohed, aahed, and jumped up and down.

  “This is really nice, but I thought we were just doing a mural on one wall.” Last thing I needed was for her to get halfway finished, then leave town. “I’m sure you have your hands full with your grandmother, and this seems like a lot of work.”

  She waved her hand. “The whole thing will probably take me about three weeks.”

  Sounded like a Pollyanna-ish time estimate to me. “That’s all? Are you sure?”

  “I work fast.” She looked down, her expression almost embarrassed. “Too fast to be a serious artist, I’ve been told.”

  I wondered who’d told her that. “Sounds like an asset to me.”

  “I can’t wait!” Sophie said.

  Zoey nodded.

  “Has Peggy seen this?” I asked.

  Hope’s curls bobbed on her shoulders. “She came over to Gran’s and I showed her. She approved the sketch as well as the estimate. She said she’s paying.”

  “Peggy is not paying.” Peggy had promised the girls a real princess room when we moved to Wedding Tree, but I had no intention of letting her pick up the tab.

  “Well, that’s something the two of you will have to work out. Here’s the estimate.” Hope handed me a professional-looking bid form.

  I looked it over. It was less than what I’d been willing to pay the artist from New Orleans, minus the travel expenses.

  “Looks good. When do we start?”

  “As soon as you’d like. If we use the current color as the base, I can just start sketching directly onto the walls.”

  “Yes!” yelled Sophie, throwing up her arms.

  “Let’s start now!” said Zoey.

  “Do we need to do anything to prep the room?” I asked.

  “Not just yet. Having the furniture in place will be a help while I’m sketching. Once I start actually painting, though, we’ll need to pull the furniture out of the way, cover the floor, and move the girls to another bedroom until the project’s finished.”

  “No problem.”

  “Can I help? I can paint!” Zoey said. “I painted some pictures at school today.”

  “Me, too,” chimed in Sophie. “Wanna see?”

  Hope grinned at them. “I’d love to see your artwork. And, yes—once I get it all sketched out, you can both help.”

  They jumped up and down and shrieked so loudly I was tempted to cover my ears. Then they thundered downstairs to gather up their art collection.

  Silence hung between us for a moment, the kind of charged silence that comes from being alone with someone you find attractive. “They’re excited.”

  “I can tell.” Hope’s smile transformed her from pretty to dazzling. “They’re adorable.”

  Another charged silence electrified the air. “So . . . did your grandmother tell you anything about the man in the photos?”

  She nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a wildly romantic tale, but . . . well, I’m afraid of where it’s all leading.”

  “Now you have me intrigued.”

  “What’s intriguing?”

  I started at the sound of Jillian’s voice in the hallway. I hadn’t heard her come in; she must have let herself in the back door with her key. I felt oddly guilty, as if I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to do, and the feeling rankled.

  “What’s intriguing?” Jillian repeated.

  None of your business. I squelched down my irritation and forced a tone of nonchalance. “Oh—just some things Miss Addie is telling Hope about the past.”

  “How interesting.” Jillian looked from my face to Hope’s. Now Hope felt on the spot. My irritation mounted.

  “I wasn’t expecting you tonight, Jillian.”

  “I finished with the school meeting early and thought I’d drop in to see if you and the girls were all right.”

  “We’re fine.” The words came out curter than I’d intended. I knew she meant well, but damn it, it was just too invasive, her walking right into my home without ringing the bell, just assuming she was welcome. I mean, I’m grateful for the way she watches out for the girls and all that she does around the house, but there needed to be some limits. I felt my jaw tighten into what Christine used to call my Mount Rushmore face—the one she said was stony and cold. “It was nice of you to stop by.”

  The color drained from Jillian’s cheeks. She visibly swallowed. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  The thunder of feet rumbled again on the back stairs, and the girls burst into the room. “Aunt Jillian!” Zoey made a beeline to hug Jillian. Sophie followed suit. “Come see what Hope’s gonna do to our walls! An’ look at the pictures we drew today!”

  “I—I’m sorry, girls, but I think I need to go,” Jillian said, stepping back.

  “Why? You just got here!”

  “Yeah. Don’ you want to see my pictures?” Sophie echoed.

  Jillian put her hand on Sophie’s hair. “Of course I do, sweetheart, but I don’t want to intrude.”

  Zoey looked at him quizzically. “You’re not ’truding. Right, Dad?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. I ran a hand down my face and blew out a hot breath. “Of course not. I wasn’t expecting you, Jillian, that’s all.”

  Sophie tugged at Hope’s hand. “Show Jillian the sketches, Hope!”

  Hope complied. I stood there in the doorway, all too aware of the way Jillian’s presence had completely changed the dynamics, disliking both the interruption and my reaction to it.

  Hell. I wasn’t all that happy about my reaction to Hope, either. She was a distraction I probably didn’t need right now—especially since she was going to be here every evening for the next few weeks. If I knew what was good for me and the girls, I’d keep my distance.

  My phone rang. It was an assistant working on an important brief. Excusing myself, I went downstairs to my office, glad of the excuse to escape.

  19

  hope

  The next day Gran was scheduled for a bath by an aide, then a doctor’s appointment, then a physical therapy session. We barely had a moment alone, and all of the activity exhausted her. She didn’t bring up the topic of Joe again the following day, or the one after, and I decided not to push it. I worked on packing up the china, crystal, and sterling serving pieces in her dining room. Sending photos to Eddie and Ralph and following up on their requests to save certain items, to sell others on eBay, or to request appraisals from antiques dealers kept me plenty busy.

  On Saturday, Gran was scheduled for her quarterly perm at the beauty parlor. It would take all morning, so at her urging, I decided to let her aide drive her to the appointment so I could go to the Friends of the Forest planting.

  “It’s a good cause, it’s always fun, and it’s a
great group of women,” Gran said. “I’ve known most of them since they were small-fry. Knew most of their mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers, too.”

  I felt a moment of trepidation when I walked into the coffee shop and saw a group of women chatting and laughing together. They all were obviously good friends, and I felt like the new kid at school.

  Kirsten quickly put me at ease. “Hope, I’m so glad you made it!” She gestured toward the other women. “Everyone, this is Miss Addie’s granddaughter.”

  “Oh, the artist!” exclaimed a pixie-faced woman in a green quilted vest. She reminded me of an elf, or maybe Peter Pan. Her strawberry blond hair was cut very short. Freckles danced across her nose, and her green eyes were bright and lively. “I’m Aimee.” She pronounced her name the French way—Em-may.

  I shook her hand.

  “Aimee is a high school English teacher,” Kirsten explained.

  “And I’m Clarabel.” A middle-aged woman with platinum blond hair and rhinestone-studded eyeglasses grasped my hand. “I work at the Hair You Are beauty salon.”

  “Oh, my grandmother’s going there this morning!”

  Clarabel nodded sagely. “She’s Miss Bernice’s client. I saw on the appointment sheet that she’s down for a perm.”

  “This is Marie.” Kirsten gestured toward a dark-haired young woman with a shy demeanor. “She’s a stay-at-home mother with beautiful three-year-old twins.”

  “Oh my, that must keep you busy!”

  “You have no idea,” Marie said, shaking my hand.

  “This is Freret.” Kirsten gestured to a tall woman about my age with dark, chin-length hair, who looked chic in skinny jeans and a safari-style top. “She’s the chief loan officer at the bank, which makes her a very handy person to know.” Kirsten put her hand on the arm of another brunette, with a friendly smile, curly hair, and red lipstick. “And this is Jen. She’s the librarian.”

  Jen gave a wide smile. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  I could feel my face heat. “I can’t imagine how.”

  “Well, this is a small town.”

  I was also introduced to a friendly-faced woman named Blythe who worked at the coffee shop part-time, as well as a high school student who helped out on weekends. Kirsten clapped her hands together. “All right, ladies—let’s get going!”

  Everyone except Blythe and the teenager trooped out and piled into Marie’s red minivan.

  “I heard you’re doing a mural for Matt’s daughters’ room,” Aimee said, settling next to me in the center seat of the second row for the fifteen-minute drive to the nature preserve.

  I nodded.

  “Oh, my—that Matt is a dream cake.” Clarabel fanned herself as if she were having a hot flash. “If I were ten years younger, I’d make a play for him in a New York minute.”

  “Just ten years younger?” teased Kirsten.

  Clarabel rolled her eyes. “Well, ten years would put me in the game if he liked cougars.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “I don’t know how anyone could follow in Christine’s shoes,” said Marie.

  “I’ve heard she was really something,” I commented.

  “Something and a half,” Aimee said. “In high school, she was head cheerleader, valedictorian, and captain of the volleyball team.”

  “Not to mention popular and sweet,” Freret sighed.

  “You wanted to hate her, but you just couldn’t,” Kirsten added.

  The women all laughed, their expressions wistful.

  “You name it, and she not only did it, she did it beautifully and graciously and with magnificent style,” Aimee said. “She was a successful attorney, a wonderful mom, and drop-dead gorgeous to boot. Matt and she were just the cutest couple.”

  The praise of the dead woman left me oddly jealous, which made me feel petty and small. “I’ve seen photos,” I said. “She looked like Kate Bosworth.”

  The women nodded.

  “Speaking of photos, your grandmother took my wedding pictures,” Marie said. “She was wonderful. She took lots of care to make everyone look great.”

  “That’s what’s so special about her,” Jen added. “She sees the best in everyone.”

  “I have three generations of Miss Addie pictures hanging on my wall,” Clarabel said. “My christening, my daughter’s christening, and my grandchildren’s christenings.”

  My throat grew thick with emotion.

  “How’s she doing?” Aimee asked.

  “Very well, all things considered, but that head injury really took a toll on her.”

  Clarabel looked at me sympathetically. “On her mind?”

  “Well, on her short-term memory, for sure. She’ll forget something that was said five minutes ago, but she remembers a lot about the past. At least, I think she’s remembering it.”

  “Dementia’s so common in someone her age,” Marie murmured.

  “I don’t think it’s that,” I said. “Some of her stories are pretty far out, but I think they really happened. What worries me is that sometimes I find her all alone, talking out loud.”

  “Oh, I do that,” Clarabel said. “I talk to myself all the time. And sometimes I talk to Saint Anthony to help me find stuff. Why, just the other day, I lost my car at the grocery store, and . . .”

  She told a funny tale about getting into the wrong car, which inspired Freret to tell about getting lost in the French Quarter, which led to other stories and confessions. My stomach hurt from laughing by the time we’d piled out of the van and joined a group of about a dozen more people.

  To my surprise, Matt, Zoey, and Sophie were among them. I spotted the children first—then Matt turned around, and my stomach somersaulted.

  Sophie gave a squeal and ran toward me. “Hey, Hope! Look—Zoey lost her tooth!”

  I bent and looked into her widely opened mouth. “That’s wonderful, sweetie! I can see your big-girl tooth already coming in.”

  “Yeah! And the tooth fairy came and gave me a dollar!”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Are you going to come work on our room tonight?” Sophie asked.

  “If it’s okay with your father.”

  Matt had been friendly, but largely invisible for the last few evenings. The girls were in and out of the bedroom while I sketched on the walls, chattering about their day, the sleepover birthday they were both going to the following weekend, how caterpillars turn into butterflies, and a million other things, but Matt mostly stayed downstairs. He seemed to want to keep his distance—and who could blame him? I did something weird every time he saw me.

  My exchange with Sophie was cut off when a man in a green uniform with a Louisiana Agriculture and Forestry Service badge motioned for everyone to gather around a white pickup with the department logo on the door. “Thanks for coming out today. As you know, we’re planting trees to help stop erosion of the wetlands.” He opened the bed of the pickup to reveal neat piles of what looked like twelve-inch twigs, along with a stack of shovels. “Our mission is pretty simple. We’ll plant these trees beyond the orange ropes. Today we’ve got Leyland cypress, and they need to be planted about eight to ten feet apart. I’ve cut these strings the right distance, so you don’t have to guess.”

  A woman wearing a big straw hat raised her hand. “My gardening guide says cypress should be planted about twenty feet apart.”

  “If you’re planting them as ornamental trees at your home, that’s right. But we’re hoping to form a wind break, so we want them close enough together to support each other.”

  “Don’t you worry about the roots growing together?”

  “Yeah. Or the branches, like the Wedding Tree?” Clarabel pointed behind me. I turned and saw an arch joining two massive live oak trees. I looked closer, and saw that two branches had grown together, forming an arbor.


  This was the town’s namesake, I realized. Gran had brought me here to see it when I was a child, and I’d seen numerous photos she’d shot of it—at dawn and dusk, summer and winter, with and without couples under it—but seeing it in person as an adult was something else.

  “That’s a pretty rare occurrence, called inosculation,” the forestry officer said. “It sometimes happens that two branches of separate trees, usually of the same species, form a graft of the branches or roots. A tree like that is actually called a husband and wife tree, or a marriage tree. Local lore has it that anyone who kisses under that tree will be together for life.”

  Murmurs of “Oh, how sweet!” and “How romantic!” arose from some of the volunteers.

  The forestry guide gave further instructions, answered a couple more questions, and handed out shovels. “You can work alone, or in groups of two or three.”

  “Hope—come with us!” Sophie said, grabbing my shovel-free hand.

  “No, Sophie. That would make four,” Zoey corrected.

  Kirsten grinned at her. “The two of you make up less than one adult, so I’m pretty sure you’d still be within the guidelines.” She looked at me. “We’ve got the perfect number for two groups, and I’m sure Matt can use the help. Right, Matt?”

  From the way he’d been avoiding me when I worked on the mural, I was pretty sure he didn’t want to be stuck with me. “Oh, I don’t want . . .”

  “Great.” Kirsten smiled as if it were all settled before I could finish my thought or Matt could utter a word. “We’ll see you back here when we’re finished.” With that, she turned and marched off. Clarabel gave me a broad wink and followed Kirsten.

  Once again, I wished the ground would open up and swallow me. Why did every encounter with Matt end up being awkward?

  “Yay!” Sophie exclaimed, tugging on my hand. “Let’s go see the tree!”

  I shot Matt a questioning look.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Sophie sprinted over to it, and the rest of us followed after her. “Did the trees have a real wedding?” She craned her head up and gazed at the arch joining the two live oaks.