Love Mercy

by Earlene Fowler

  In Tennessee, Tommy found work with a local cabinetmaker, and Karla Rae, with her decent if unremarkable Sunday morning soprano voice, made the rounds on Music Row and haunted open mike nights in the city’s numerous bars. They had two babies in two years and a third one four years later. Tommy called Love and Cy, thrilled each time, but with each child, Karla Rae seemed to sound perpetually more sullen. She’d not gotten any closer to her dream than singing cover songs in tourist-filled honky-tonks.

  After Tommy’s funeral, there had been a small gathering at their rented house in Nashville. Her father, who lived in Ohio, had sent flowers but couldn’t take off work. Karla Rae’s mother had died years before. That made Love a little more sympathetic to her sometimes snippy daughter-in-law. What kind of parent didn’t drop everything to come support their child during a time like this? After most of the guests had left, Love went in the kitchen and started washing cups and glasses. As she worked, she wondered about asking Karla Rae if she wanted to come to Morro Bay with the girls and maybe start a new life on the Central Coast. She was picturing the girls playing in the Johnson hay barn where Tommy had played when Karla Rae burst through the swinging kitchen door. She collapsed on one of the red vinyl kitchen chairs.

  “Shoot, I’m so tired I could melt into a puddle right here on the floor,” she said. “Finally got the girls to bed. Cy’s reading them a story.”

  “You just sit there and relax,” Love said, glancing at her. “I’ll finish these dishes.”

  “Good, I’m sick to death of doing dishes.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms across her chest. “I’m a bit put out, you know.”

  “Oh?” Love said, turning back to the sink.

  “Tommy only had ten thousand dollars in insurance.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know how long he expected that to last with three growing girls.”

  Love froze, shocked that Karla Rae would bring that up on the day of the funeral. She blinked her eyes quickly, trying to focus on the yellow sippy cup she was washing. “I’m sure,” she finally said, “that Tommy didn’t think he would die so young.”

  “Well, he should have considered that. It’s kinda selfish, if you ask me.”

  Love slowly turned around, about to snap an irritable reply to her insensitive daughter-in-law, when Cy walked into the room. By his despairing look, Love knew he’d heard Karla Rae’s words. Standing behind his daughter-in-law, he shook his head at Love, his green eyes filled with pain. It was his expression that caused Love to press her lips together and say nothing. She would not have done one thing at that moment to make her husband feel any worse than he did. Love turned back to the sink of dirty dishes and took out her frustration on a coffee-stained mug printed with a picture of Bart Simpson.

  Love was certain Karla Rae never told the girls that Love had written and called every week after Tommy died, sent checks when she could to help out with expenses. Karla Rae cashed the checks but never sent one word of acknowledgment. When Love called, her granddaughters never seemed to be there; they were at tee ball or a sleepover or an overnight scout function.

  About a year after Tommy’s death, Love’s letters started coming back marked, “Moved, no forwarding address.” When Love and Cy tried to call, they got a recording that stated the phone had been disconnected. Love couldn’t remember Karla Rae’s father’s name or the city in Ohio where she vaguely remembered Tommy saying he lived. After three months, they hired a private detective who, with a few phone calls and some Internet searching, discovered that Karla Rae had married a man named Pete Ryan and lived in Pensacola, Florida. Love called the number. Karla Rae’s voice didn’t sound shocked or embarrassed when she heard who it was.

  “Oh, Love!” she exclaimed. “I was going to call you and let you know we’d moved, but you know how it is with kids, just one thing after another. How are you? Did you know that I got married again? He’s got a real good job. Such a wonderful father to the girls, buys them every silly little thing they want. I love my new house. The girls all have their own rooms. Isn’t that great?”

  Love stuttered a moment, amazed at Karla Rae’s audacity. “Well, I suppose so.”

  “We were registered at Pottery Barn, but you can just send us a gift card, if you want.”

  Though Love couldn’t bring herself to send that gift card, she did start writing the girls again, still getting no response. Her letters eventually became birthday and Christmas cards, which also were never acknowledged. It was like having a relationship with imaginary people, all the emotions on one side. To be fair to the girls, Love wasn’t even sure they received any of the cards or letters. When she wrote that Cy had cancer, Karla Rae never answered, so Love wasn’t surprised when there was no response when she sent a copy of Cy’s obituary.

  After that, Love was ashamed to admit she just stopped trying. In an odd way, it made her feel better, lighter, like she’d finally accepted the lot in life handed to her by the God she’d trusted since she was a girl, but whose plans for her life now eluded her.

  “He does have a plan,” Rocky, Magnolia’s husband, assured her the one time she flippantly mentioned her disappointment in God at a Labor Day picnic as they watched giggling young kids during a potato sack race.

  She’d just nodded and didn’t answer, sorry she’d opened her mouth. She dearly loved Rocky both as a friend and as her pastor. She and Cy had first attended his small church, Baytown Christian Fellowship, at Magnolia’s request when she and Magnolia first worked together. From the moment they walked into the tiny sky blue church six blocks from their house, they felt at home. They’d instantly connected with Rocky’s open personality and no-nonsense take on the Scriptures. And they admired his dedication. Rocky worked full-time as a barber so the small, aging congregation only had to pay him a token salary.

  Rocky and Magnolia had been a safe and loving shelter for her those shadowy days after Cy’s death. And though she wasn’t exactly speaking to God, she still went to church most Sundays. She was waiting, she supposed. For what, she wasn’t quite sure.

  But, as much as Rocky and Magnolia tried, they couldn’t understand. Not really. Their daughters, Jade and Cheyenne, were healthy, happily married and lived here in San Celina County. Except for their elderly parents, Rocky or Magnolia hadn’t lost anyone really close to them. When a person lost a child or a spouse, they were definitely dragged, protesting, into membership of a club that no one ever aspired to join.

  Love stood up and went to the bathroom to comb her short, strawberry blonde hair, streaked now with white. She couldn’t put off meeting this young woman any longer. What would this supposed granddaughter think the first time she saw Love? Would she recognize her? No doubt this girl would consider her as old as Morro Rock, even though the media called fifty-eight the new . . . what? Forty-five?

  She stared at her squarish chin and high cheekbones, the face that Cy had always called “majestic.”

  “What you mean is bony,” she’d replied, smiling.

  “Angular,” he’d countered. “Noble. Katharine Hepburn-ish.”

  She’d snort at the comparison, but it always secretly thrilled her. She doubted that anyone her granddaughter’s age would even know who Katharine Hepburn was. To them, Meryl Streep was a senior citizen. Shoot, these days, Julia Roberts would be considered an older woman.

  She bent over the sink, splashing cold water on her face, then straightened up, aligning her spine. Whatever this girl, this granddaughter of hers, needed, she would try to help. Though she had many beloved friends here in San Celina County, including her in-laws, August and Polly, she had no blood family. Fear churned in her chest. Who knew what troubles this girl brought with her? It could end up being the best thing that ever happened to her. Or the worst.

  “Only one way to find out, sister,” she said to her reflection in the mirror. A determined, slightly thin-lipped woman, one that had made her husband dream of Katharine Hepburn, stared back at her. The woman nodded in agreement and gave her a ho
peful smile.

  THREE

  Mel

  Melina Jane LeBlanc, who went by Mel, slipped onto the end stool at the yellow Formica counter of the Buttercream Café. Magnolia placed a stout white coffee mug in front of her and filled it three-quarters full.

  “See that little bit of a girl over there?” Magnolia whispered, pushing the lamb-shaped creamer toward Mel. “She might be Love’s granddaughter. Love’s on her way down here.”

  Mel studied the thin young woman sitting against the far wall. Training from her eleven years as a Las Vegas police officer kicked in. She narrowed her dark brown eyes, memorizing the girl’s statistics: white female, seventeen to twenty-one, five foot three or four, medium brown straight hair, 110 to 115 pounds, roundish face, pale skin, wide-set eyes. Mel was too far away to discern exact color, but they were light—blue or green—their transparent coolness apparent even across the café’s dining room.

  Mel’s suspicious nature, something as organic to her at age thirty-five as her wavy auburn hair, automatically distrusted the girl. Mel knew Love had grandchildren whom she never saw. In the almost three years that they’d been friends, Love had briefly spoken of them twice, her soft Kentucky drawl tinged with regret. No details, just that she and her daughter-in-law were estranged, and because of that, Love didn’t have a relationship with her grandchildren. What little Mel knew about the situation, she learned from Cy right before he died.

  Mel continued to watch the girl, who didn’t look anything like her friend. Love was tall, five nine or ten, with sharp cheekbones that suggested that ubiquitous Cherokee ancestor that everyone and their brother claimed since the sixties when being a Native American became not just acceptable but cool. In Love’s case, it could be true, since she told Mel that her family went back generations in eastern Kentucky’s Appalachian Mountains. Her great-great-grandmother had written about the Trail of Tears in the big family Bible kept on Love’s living room bookshelf.

  Love’s shaggy, white-streaked hair was reddish gold, not walnut-colored like this girl’s. Mel sometimes teased Love by calling her Carrot Top, though her hair color was anything but a garish orange. For as long as Mel could remember, she had never been comfortable around other women. The normal give-and-take laughter and teasing between women remained an unsolvable mystery to her, so it said something about her relationship with Love that she felt comfortable enough to rib her about something as innocuous as hair color.

  With this second look, Mel decided the girl, fiddling now for something in her dirt-stained backpack, was likely eighteen or nineteen years old. The girl found what she was looking for, a length of string. She bit it into two pieces and quickly twisted her flyaway hair into slightly crooked braids, finishing them off with the string. She wore tight, grimy blue jeans and a baggy lavender sweatshirt printed with red lettering: Nashville Sounds. It was only because Mel was an avid triple A baseball fan that she knew the Sounds were a farm team for the Milwaukee Brewers.

  “Magnolia Rosalina!” called a husky man from a back booth. He wore an ancient, sweat-stained Union Oil cap. “Where’s my twice-baked potato omelet?” He tapped his oversized Timex wristwatch.

  “Keep your panties on, Lester,” Magnolia called back, rolling her bright blue eyes at Mel. A strand of curly black hair, laced with silver, pulled out of her loose bun and fell across her forehead. She brushed it away impatiently and said to Mel, “There are easier ways of making a living, I’m told.”

  “And harder,” Mel answered, looking down and blowing on her coffee more for something to do rather than to cool it down.

  Magnolia nodded, acknowledging the difficulty of Mel’s former career. She cocked her head over at the girl, who was now staring at one of her grandma’s photographs on the wall. “Keep an eye on her while I’m fetching Lester’s order.”

  Mel returned her gaze to the girl. “Count on it.” The girl chose that moment to turn her head and stare back at her. She held Mel’s eyes without blinking. Then she slowly reached up to scratch her cheek and subtly gave Mel the finger.

  Mel felt her bottom lip twitch, wanting to smile. The little brat had nerve; she had to give her that. She apparently didn’t appreciate Mel and Magnolia’s scrutiny. Though Mel admired chutzpah in any young woman—heaven knows they needed it to survive these days—it also increased her suspicion. This was not some innocent girl wanting to find her grandma so they could exchange family stories and bake sugar cookies. Somewhere this girl had learned to watch out for herself. Mel would have to keep an eye on this one. There was no way she’d let anyone, even a long-lost family member, hurt Love. Mel had promised as much to Cy before he died.

  The rusty cowbell clattered when Love opened the Buttercream’s front door. A hail of greetings welcomed her from around the room.

  “I’m going to kidnap that bell and throw it in the bay,” Mel called to Magnolia, who was sliding Lester’s omelet in front of him.

  “I’ll cut off your cannoli supply,” she replied amicably.

  “You got me there,” Mel said, giving one of her rare smiles. She loved Magnolia’s cannoli with their tiny bits of cherry, lemon and miniature chocolate chips hiding in the sweet ricotta filling.

  Love raised her hand, greeting everyone, then glanced around until she spotted the girl. Her eyes lingered for a moment, then she deliberately walked over to Mel. Mel was glad to see Love appeared to be maintaining a bit of emotional distance.

  “Good morning,” she said, touching Mel’s upper arm briefly. She glanced at the brown and white Stewart’s Root Beer clock above the kitchen pass-through. Four orders hung on the stainless turnaround waiting for Shug, Magnolia’s second cousin and the Buttercream’s primary cook. “Or I guess that’s good afternoon, since it’s past noon.”

  “Heard you have family in town,” Mel said, stirring her coffee.

  Love gave a bemused smile. “Possibly. I see you’ve been watching her for me.”

  Magnolia walked back over and gave Love a quick hug, then headed for the swinging kitchen door. “I’ve got orders waiting in the kitchen. There’s a couple of bills over by the register. Don’t leave without saying good-bye.”

  “I won’t,” Love said. She looked back over at the girl, who stared back without blinking.

  “Be careful,” Mel said, pushing back her mug.

  “I think I can handle her,” Love said, turning back to Mel. The sharp tips of her cheekbones flushed pink with some kind of emotion. “Raised her daddy, you know.”

  “You sure it’s your granddaughter?” Mel didn’t want to push, but she was worried. “It might be a con.”

  “It’s Loretta Lynn, all right,” Love said. “She’s the second of my three granddaughters. She looks the same, only older. The only one with brown hair like her daddy’s. Other two are . . . well, were the last time I saw them, redheads.”

  “Want me to stay?” Mel asked, standing up. They were almost the same height, and she looked Love directly in the eyes.

  Love’s blue eyes softened. “No need. I can handle this. I’m curious, of course. Maybe a little nervous. But she’s just a girl.” She patted Mel’s upper arm. “Don’t you have a riding lesson?”

  Mel nodded. Four months ago she’d started twice weekly horseback riding lessons. Love needed help working Cy’s parents’ ranch, and Mel offered, not quite realizing what she was getting into. “I can cancel it. Benni will understand.”

  Benni Ortiz lived on a ranch neighboring August and Polly Johnson’s on the east. She and her husband, Gabe, a retired San Celina police chief, lived there with her dad, her grandmother and Gabe’s son, Sam, a San Celina firefighter.

  “Don’t cancel,” Love said. “I can handle one tired, probably scared, eighteen-year-old girl.”

  Mel stared at her friend’s calm, lightly freckled face. Maybe not this one, she wanted to say. “I’ll keep my cell phone on in case you need reinforcement.”

  Love slipped her arm around Mel’s shoulders. “Sweetie, don’t you worry about me. You just
concentrate on staying on your pony. August and Polly are counting on you to ride in the roundup in a few months.”

  “Dinner tomorrow at the Shrimp?” Mel asked, tucking two one-dollar bills under her empty mug. “We can change the date if you want.”

  Love and Mel ate dinner together every Friday night at the Happy Shrimp down on Morro Bay’s Embarcadero. The ritual had started when Cy was alive, when he first hired Mel and realized she was eating every meal alone. After his death, she and Love continued meeting for dinner without a word and without missing a week.

  Mel glanced over at the girl, who was now watching Love suspiciously. The girl’s wide mouth turned down in a frown. Did she recognize her grandmother? Mel couldn’t tell.

  “I’ll be there,” Love said firmly. “Loretta will either join us or not. She’ll have to fit into my life, not the other way around.”

  Mel picked up her navy corduroy barn jacket and slipped it on. “See you tomorrow then.”

  She purposely avoided meeting the girl’s eyes when she walked out of the café, though she was tempted to shoot her one of the don’t-mess-with-me stares that she’d picked up during her years patrolling the streets of North Las Vegas.

  But the girl had attitude already, and Mel didn’t want to cause any more animosity during this get-reacquainted time between her and Love. There’d be time enough to put the girl in her place if need be.

  Outside, the December day had remained cold and foggy despite the fact that it was past noon. She stood on the front step of the café and inhaled deeply, enjoying the damp, salty air. Though many citizens of Morro Bay, especially the new ones, complained when they didn’t see the sun for days, this kind of weather energized Mel, made her want to go on a five-mile run, though she hadn’t jogged since she’d moved here. She stretched her arms above her head, feeling her stomach pull and tighten. Maybe she should start running again. Or lift some weights. Bucking alfalfa bales and moving saddles around at the feed store had once kept her arms and legs strong, but now she mostly worked the counter. Taking her kayak out on the bay once a week and riding horses could only work her muscles so much.