The Lilac Bouquet

by Carolyn Brown

  “Deal,” she said with a big smile.

  “My grandmother was Delia Anderson, and she was born and raised on a fancy horse farm in Virginia. My grandfather was Adam Findley, and he was born and brought up in the same area. He worked for Delia’s father as a trainer.”

  “And?”

  “I told you about them. That’s who they are.” Just telling that much put a knot in his gut.

  “And if I’m going to give up my red scrubs, you really should give me a little more than that,” she said.

  He had all the information tucked away in a safe in his office, and he’d never even had his grandparents’ names put on their tombstones. What had happened was no one’s business, but that nosy girl wasn’t going to be happy until he told her more. Yes, sir, next week he would sacrifice his visit to the cabin for sure.

  “Is your uncle your mother’s brother? Or your father’s?”

  He inhaled and let it out in a huff. “Okay, okay. It’s like this. Delia and Adam fell in love, but there was no way her father was ever going to let his only daughter marry a poor man. She’d been raised with the finest that money could buy, and Adam, well, he was the son of a woman whose husband had been killed in a coal mining accident before Adam was born. His mama moved from Kentucky to Virginia to be near her sister and took in laundry and sewing to make ends meet. They did all right with what Adam made at the horse ranch, but it sure wouldn’t support Delia in the style that she’d been raised.” Seth finished off his ice cream.

  Dang the girl anyway. The last three bites were nothing but cold frothy milk.

  “So they got married anyway and had your mother, right?”

  He nodded, amazed that the knot in his gut was gone. He’d figured that it would grow and suffocate him plumb to death if he ever talked about his past, but it was kind of therapeutic. Not that he’d ever tell Nora that—she’d been after him for years to see a therapist.

  “He told his mama he was going to join the army, since there was a war going on, and left on a Sunday morning. She thought he’d gotten captured and died overseas, because she never heard from him again. She passed away still denying that he and Delia ran away together. But Delia’s daddy knew what had happened and he disowned her, I later found out. Anyway, after his death, her older brother, Robert Anderson, set about to find out what happened to her—between the two of us we pieced it together.”

  He’d never told anyone, not even Nora, about the massive amount of money he’d spent finding out about his mother’s heritage. His sister would only fuss at him, and she’d never cared about digging into old ashes like he did. But then she hadn’t suffered what he had or caused the trouble he had, either.

  “They ran away and came to Texas?” Emmy Jo asked.

  “I don’t know that I want to go further about this. This is not Hickory gossip—”

  Emmy Jo held up her palm. “All our home health aides sign a paper about privacy. I can’t repeat anything any of my patients say or they can fire me. I will keep your secrets, Seth.”

  He thought about that for a few moments before he went on. “They boarded a train and rode to Kentucky, where one of his friends was working on another horse ranch. Adam was hired on and they lived there a couple of months, then moved with the friend out to West Texas, near the New Mexico border. My mother, Mary, was born there on a cattle ranch. Delia and the wife of the owner struck up a friendship, and when the woman died, Delia wasn’t happy there. And about that same time, this area was entering the oil boom, so they packed up their belongings and came this way in a covered wagon.”

  “They had cars then,” Emmy Jo said, “didn’t they?”

  “Rich folks did, but not the working population. Even two years after they’d run away they were still looking over their shoulder, so they didn’t carry anything that said who they were except for that picture on my mantel. Out in West Texas they were known as Doris and Andy, but when they had their accident in Hickory no one knew their names, because they didn’t carry identification. That’s why their tombstones are labeled the way they are. They were just a young married couple.”

  “Is that how they died—an accident? What happened?”

  “That’s enough,” he said.

  “I did bring five red scrub outfits with me.” She raised an eyebrow, reminding him of Nora more than Tandy. When Tandy was trying to get her way, she’d set her mouth in a cute little way that he could never refuse.

  “I’ll only tell you more if you give all five of them to Oma Lynn to hide until you leave. That way you can’t blackmail me anymore,” he said.

  “I’ll put them in a paper bag and deliver them to her in the morning,” Emmy Jo agreed.

  Seth went on. “The horses were spooked and the wagon overturned. A piece of the wagon wheel broke and pierced Delia’s leg. The doctor’s report said that she died of blood loss in only a few minutes. Adam’s neck was broken. The baby was unharmed.”

  “What happened to the baby?” Emmy Jo asked.

  “You asked about my grandparents. That’s enough history.”

  She motioned toward the door. “Okay, then, can we go inside?”

  “Not today. I only go in the house on the first Sunday of every month to make sure everything is all right.” He checked his watch. “We’ve got fifteen more minutes. I want to just sit in quietness and not talk.”

  He wasn’t sure if he’d opened a can of worms, but he felt better than he had since the surgery. It almost seemed like his mother’s spirit was there beside him.

  The rocker creaked like it always had when Mary sat in it at the close of day. A nice little breeze kicked up, blowing the aroma of the wisteria his way. It had been a good day, even if he did have to endure the presence of Tandy Massey’s granddaughter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emmy Jo paced to the top of the staircase at the top of the wide upstairs hallway, back to her room and to the balcony, only to start all over again several times before she finally plopped down in the wing-back chair out in the hall. The story that Seth told her kept playing through her mind. She’d never had a superstitious bone in her body, but that night she felt as if Seth’s grandmother Delia was calling out to her to tell her story. Not just the chronological events, but the way she felt when she left her home to be with the man of her dreams and the thoughts she had those last moments before she died.

  “But I didn’t know you, so how do I know how you felt?” Emmy Jo whispered.

  She stared out the open balcony doors at the stars twinkling around a quarter moon. Had Delia seen that same moon and stars from the wagon as she traveled through Hickory? Was she thinking of her little daughter when that accident happened?

  “I should write this down. What if something happens to Seth and the story dies with him?” She brought out her laptop from the closet, opened it, and the words began to flow as she felt the urgency in Delia to run away with Adam. Raw emotion wrapped itself around Emmy Jo as she wrote about Delia tucking that little painting of her home into her satchel that evening when she left everything else behind. She would have wanted something to remind her of the good times that she’d shared with her brother and family when she was growing up. At two in the morning, Emmy Jo stopped typing and went to bed.

  With only a few hours sleep, she bailed out of bed when her alarm went off, brushed her teeth, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and grabbed a set of scrubs.

  “No, not those,” she reminded herself and dressed in a pair of jeans and a bright-yellow T-shirt. She folded four sets of scrubs and carried them down the stairs. Seth wouldn’t be able to keep his issue with red a secret for two whole months.

  When she reached the kitchen, Oma Lynn looked up from the stove with something that passed for a smile. “So you are still here?”

  “I am.” Emmy Jo got a paper bag from the pantry and shoved the scrubs down into it, picked up a Magic Marker from a jar filled with pencils and pens, and wrote on the outside:

  IOU one red scrub as soon as the laundry i
s done.

  She folded down the top and handed it to Oma Lynn. Then she poured herself a cup of coffee. “What can I do to help?”

  “You are Seth’s assistant, not kitchen help. And what is this?”

  “It’s payment. I’ll collect them to take home with me the last day I’m here. Seth and I made a deal. He talked about his family, and I agreed not to wear red while I’m here,” Emmy Jo said. “I’m not going to sit down and let you wait on me, Oma Lynn. Tell me what to do.”

  Oma Lynn set the bag on the cabinet with a smile, and her face didn’t even crack.

  “Get another plate down and put it on the table. I didn’t know if you were here, so I only set it for two. I’m making pancakes and sausage. You can get the syrup out of the pantry when you get that done.”

  “Which syrup? I see at least four kinds,” Emmy Jo yelled from the pantry.

  “All of them. I never know which one Mr. Seth will want,” Oma Lynn said.

  Well, butter my fanny and call me a biscuit, Emmy Jo thought. So he wasn’t so OCD that he was stuck on the exact same thing every day.

  The saying made her think of Tandy, and a pang of homesickness hit her right in the heart. She’d heard those words come out of Tandy’s mouth too many times to count when something amazed her.

  It had only been two days since she’d seen her, but it was always tough when they were arguing.

  “Who makes up that menu on the fridge?” Emmy Jo asked.

  “Mr. Seth does that the last week of the month. Sunday dinner never changes. Sometimes the rest of it stays the same. Sometimes he shifts it around a little.”

  “Why does Sunday never change?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “How did you manage chicken and dumplings and his Saturday night supper before his hip surgery?” Emmy Jo asked.

  “I made it up beforehand and left a note on the top about heating it in the microwave,” she answered.

  “Did you know his mama?” Emmy Jo asked.

  Oma Lynn shot her a dirty look. “I’m twenty-five years younger than he is and his mama died when he was only eighteen. You do the math.”

  Seth was already sitting at the end of the table when Emmy Jo carried the syrup to the dining room. His thick gray hair was combed back, and she caught a whiff of his shaving lotion. He’d dressed in a light-blue shirt and dark slacks, and his walker was right beside his chair.

  “Happy Monday,” she said cheerfully.

  “Not for me. You’re still here.”

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “Oma Lynn brings it with the breakfast,” he answered with a sharp tone.

  Mr. Grumpy was back in full force.

  Seth had slept better than he had in years. There had been no Sunday-night nightmares about his mother’s death. He’d awakened with a song in his mind. One that talked about opening a Bible and seeing his mama’s teardrops on every line and then finding a faded blue ribbon and the remnants of a lilac bouquet. It had been years since he’d heard the old hymn, but he made a mental note to get out that record and listen to it that very day.

  He hadn’t been very old when he realized that lilacs were his mother’s favorite flower. Many times he’d taken her a bouquet, and many days he’d seen his mother sitting on the porch with her Bible lying in her lap. She’d swipe at the tears, but the drops on the pages left no doubt that she had been crying.

  Remembering her that morning with the song in his head brought a good feeling. She’d loved purple, and when the wisteria and the lilac bushes bloomed, the two-room cabin had been filled with the sweet aroma of the bouquets in fruit jars. Years ago he’d thought about having the weathered old place painted, but he couldn’t make himself change a thing about it. Someday it would fall completely down, yet so far the roof was still shedding water and the foundation hadn’t started to rot. Hopefully it would last until he was dead and buried, because it was the only place where he was at peace—at least on the porch. Inside the house was a different story.

  They ate in silence and then he went to the patio to read the newspapers. That Oma Lynn motioned for Emmy Jo to follow him didn’t escape his notice. He’d hoped that maybe the two women would strike up a friendship and leave him alone, but it didn’t look as if that was going to happen.

  “I suppose we’re going to read the newspapers this morning,” she said. “It’s a little chilly out here this morning. Do you want a throw for your legs?”

  “If I do, I’ll tell you.” He picked up the Dallas Morning News and flipped it open.

  “Well, I’m going to get myself one, because that breeze is cold.” She went back into the house. “I might have another cup of coffee, too.”

  He ignored her and read about the new president settling into the White House. With a frown, he mumbled, “If they ain’t crooked before they go into that place, they will be when they come out of it.”

  “What are you fussin’ about now?” Emmy Jo put a cup of coffee on the table beside him and flipped a throw over his walker so he could get to it.

  “Politics!” He ignored the throw until he finished the front page, then dragged it over his legs. He took a sip of the coffee before turning the page. When he glanced over, he saw her head bobbing and her shoulders wiggling and wires going from a small thing on her lap to her ears.

  “What are you listening to?” he asked.

  She pulled a purple plug from her ear and raised an eyebrow. “You’re ready for me to read that paper?”

  “No, I asked what you are listening to?”

  “Josh Turner and Randy Travis doing duets,” she answered.

  “Who is that?”

  “They sing country music. Here, listen.” She reached over and put the tiny device close to his ear.

  They were singing something about digging up bones. Not bad voices, and at least it wasn’t that horrible stuff that Nora’s grandkids listened to the last time he was in Amarillo. Mercy, that had to be ten years ago.

  He pushed her hand away. “That’s enough. You can start reading from the bottom of the stack of newspapers instead of waiting on me to finish this one. Just put it back where you get it. I read them in order.”

  He expected her to ask him why he did, but she simply slipped the bottom one out and flipped it open.

  Logan awoke that Monday morning to his phone ringing. He grabbed it from the nightstand without opening his eyes and drawled a deep hello.

  “Good morning, son,” his mother said. “We’ll be sitting down to breakfast in ten minutes. Come on down and join us.”

  “I need to shave and get dressed before I leave. Don’t wait for me,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes had passed by the time he got ready and went down the steps to the parsonage located next door. “Good morning,” he called out as he opened the back door into the utility room and stepped inside to the aroma of bacon and coffee.

  “Hello, grandson.” Jesse smiled from the table.

  “Gramps.” Logan nodded.

  “Get a cup of coffee and refill mine. We can visit while your mama finishes breakfast. Your dad is in the study preparing for the Wednesday-night sermon.” Jesse’s voice had turned raspy over the years, but then he had turned eighty-two years old just a few weeks ago. He hadn’t preached in years, leaving it to his son, Wyatt, every Sunday morning.

  Logan kissed his mother, Paula, on the cheek and filled a mug. Then he carried the pot to the table, where he topped off his grandfather’s cup. “It sure smells good in here,” he said.

  “So Emmy Jo is up at Seth Thomas’s place, right?” Jesse asked.

  Logan didn’t need a road map to see that this was an ambush. “She is, and the job is going well. I talked to her yesterday.”

  “At the cemetery for an hour while that crazy old fool sat in front of his mama’s grave.” Jesse’s light-gray eyes had narrowed to mere slits in his round face. His hair had fallen out so long ago that Logan didn’t remember him with anything other than a reddish-blond rim
around his head. And when he drew his brows down into a frown, everyone knew that a storm was brewing.

  Logan met him head-on. “That’s right. And what is it that you have against Seth Thomas? You never told me why you two hate each other.”

  “And I never will,” Jesse answered through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to talk about the past, grandson. I want to talk about your future. You like this banking job, right? And you don’t intend to change your mind about me paying for you to go to seminary?”

  “I love my job, and we’ve been over this a dozen times.” Logan rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out a way to make his escape.

  “It’s that girl. She’d make a horrible preacher’s wife and you know it. So this career choice is for her, isn’t it?” He glared at Logan. “And she won’t do much better as a banker’s wife.” Jesse sighed. “God blessed me with a good son. I prayed he’d do the same for your father.”

  “I’m going to marry Emmy Jo. I’m sorry that you feel like this about her and about me, Gramps,” Logan said.

  Paula set a platter of hash-browned potatoes and scrambled eggs on the table. “God did bless us with a good son, and things could have been worse.” She went back to the kitchen and returned with a second platter of bacon and waffles.

  “I don’t see how,” Jesse growled.

  “Good morning,” Wyatt said as he took his place at the head of the table and bowed his head. “Dad, say grace for us before this fantastic breakfast gets cold.”

  Jesse’s gruff voice always softened when he talked to God. Evidently he and the Lord had a better relationship than he had with his only grandchild. That Monday morning, Logan wished that instead of his dad being an only child, his grandparents had had half a dozen kids and they’d all produced five or six children so he wouldn’t be in the spotlight all the time.

  “Amen,” Jesse said.

  Logan raised his head to see his mother pick up the platter of eggs and hand them to his father.