The following afternoon, Grace sat with Lurina at her kitchen table and spread out two rows of four-by-six snapshots on the green plastic tablecloth. The floor of the kitchen was also green, a mottled, speckled linoleum worn through in spots, worn dull in others. There was no mothball scent today, only the smell of onions mingled with burnt toast and another odor that Grace could not identify, perhaps overcooked greens of some kind. An odd combination, Grace thought, but refrained from asking. Lurina, she knew, planned none of her meals, but ate instead from a stack of frozen dinners in her freezer. Sometimes she cooked greens, or whatever struck her appetite at the moment, any time of the day or night. And why not? She lived alone. Her time belonged exclusively to her. Would she cook when she married Old Man, or would he adapt her eating habits? Grace reminded herself that it was not her problem.
“These pictures on the top here were taken in the Masterson cemetery,” Grace said softly. “And these”—she tapped the bottom row of photographs—”were taken in the Reynolds cemetery.”
“Who took ’em?” Lurina asked, pulling back.
“Amelia and Mike.”
Lurina snorted, then selected pictures from her family cemetery, and from Old Man’s. One by one, she brought the snapshots inches from her face, and her eyes disappeared as she squinted. “Humph,” she said several times.
“Your cemetery must have been a pretty place, surrounded by the woods, so peaceful,” Grace said.
Lurina turned testy. “And who’s sayin’ it ain’t?”
The question took Grace aback. The difference between the two cemeteries was unequivocal. In the Masterson cemetery wooden markers slanted, weeds abounded, fallen branches lay on graves like downed spars on storm-battered ships. Grace spoke candidly. “There was a time when you were able to keep up your family’s cemetery, but not in the last year or so, right?”
“I ain’t what I used to be,” she admitted grudgingly. Then Lurina turned petulant, like a child, shoving away the pictures, jumbling them together. Holding her arms jammed tight against her rib cage, she clenched her fists in front of her. “If Joseph Elisha be a proper gentleman, he’d send Wayne to fix it right pretty like it used to be.”
“The Reynolds cemetery looks down on the pasture. In the spring you can see flowers on the hillsides and along the stream. It’s a lovely site. Maybe if you saw it, you’d like it.”
Lurina’s jaw quivered. “What’d Pa think, me buryin’ someplace else?”
Grace slid her hand across the table close to Lurina’s arm. “Your pa loved you, Lurina. He’d be pleased you’re marrying Old Man, and not being alone at this time of your life. You’d be a Reynolds, and properly buried alongside your husband.”
Lurina pulled her arm away from Grace’s hand. “It ain’t right, a Masterson buried outta her own property.”
Grace fixed her eyes on Lurina’s. “When you’re gone, strangers will tromp your woods, people will picnic and camp out. They’ll find your cemetery.” A plan had been swirling in Grace’s mind. She had lain awake last night imagining the park service declaring the cemetery a historic site, and restoring it, protecting it with a low stone wall. She imagined Lurina sitting on her porch relating stories about the deaths of her ancestors to someone assigned by the park service, and later the park service engraving condensed versions of those stories on markers set alongside the appropriate graves: Emma Masterson Green, died of blood poisoning from a wound treated with hot bacon grease, or, As told to his beloved daughter, Lurina, patriarch Grover Masterson on the day of his passing witnessed the light of the Lord in his window. The old cemetery would take on a life of its own. People would visit. The departed would come alive for them, and be remembered.
Slowly, and in great detail, Grace outlined for Lurina her dreams for the cemetery. “Other folks will want that kind of information about their ancestors acknowledged in their cemeteries, the same as in yours. They’ll tell their stories, and write them on signs. The deceased will be remembered vividly, not just a date of birth, death, and their name. And you will be remembered as the one who started the whole thing.”
Lurina buried her face in her hands. Her long white braid, thin at the end, hung over her shoulder and curled on the green tablecloth like a white snake in the grass. “And I ain’t gonna be there for them to read ’bout,” she muttered, and Grace knew the battle was over.
“Maybe the Reynolds family’U do the same. What if they took the idea from you? Your stone could read, Lurina Masterson Reynolds, former owner of Masterson Park, bride at eighty-one, good shot with a shotgun, good friend, whatever words you might like.”
Lurina’s face grew contemplative. “It’d say how I passed.”
“Of course, and whatever else you want to say about your life. You could pick the words.” Such a weird conversation of dying and burial, as casual as making a shopping list for groceries.
“I hear tell folks put agreements on paper when they gets married. We could do that, about what’s goin’ on my stone?”
“I’m sure you could.”
Both palms struck the green plastic tablecloth simultaneously. “Done, then,” she said.
Grace reached for Lurina’s hands and squeezed them, and Lurina looked pleased. Now only the problem of where they would live remained, or so Grace thought.
35
Twas the Night Before Christmas
An infinite blue sky and brilliant sunshine lent no warmth to the day before Christmas. Sweet sounds, Christmas carols being rehearsed, floated from Cove Road Church. This evening, carolers—women and girls in long bright woolen dresses, and boys and men in thick jackets—would traverse the road bringing Christmas cheer. All along Cove Road, homes wore icicle necklaces of light that brightened the nights. Up and down Cove Road, windows glistened with colored lights, including the ladies’ porch. Hannah had climbed a ladder held by Grace, and Amelia handed up strands of colored lights that Hannah tacked to the fretwork of their porch. In Maxwell’s front yard, a magnificent fir, a great pyramid of white light, shimmered in the cold winter’s nights.
Christmas Day, Hannah insisted, was a day to rest and relax; their Christmas meal would be served tonight, Christmas Eve. A twenty-four-pound turkey was basted and in the oven, the sweet potato casserole made and set aside to be heated later, and fresh buns waited to be popped into the oven. Hannah and Amelia, with Grace looking on, sat at a cluttered dining room table wrapping the last of their Christmas gifts. Hannah’s boxes, all but two, rose in neat stacks from the floor beside her chair. Amelia deftly tied the fancy bow on the last of hers.
“Put your finger here, will you, Grace?” Amelia nodded at the ribbon.
Grace placed her finger on the knot, then eased her finger from under Amelia’s glorious big bow. “You make wonderful bows, Amelia. Makes me think of Christmases past. My mother made bows and I’d hold the knot for her.” Memories flooded back. “When I was young, holiday meals were such a trial. My grandparents came, my aunt and uncle, four cousins. We crammed shoulder to shoulder at the table. My father insisted on carving the turkey while he lectured us kids about cleaning our plates because there were starving children in Europe. By the time my mother got everything on each plate and served us all, the food was cold. Cold mashed potatoes taste gobby.”
“Is that a word?”
“Why not?” Grace shrugged. “It’s what they tasted like.”
Amelia set aside the long narrow box with the new bow. “Done.” She rubbed her hands together.
“What memories do holiday meals evoke for you, Amelia?” Grace asked.
Amelia closed her eyes for a moment. “Holidays were wonderful. We went to Aunt Clea’s home, or my grandparents’. There were always friends as well as family, and the table was beautiful, candles, flowers. Aunt Clea gave me her Spode dishes. There was always someone to help in the kitchen, and both my grandmother and Aunt Clea served family-style, huge platters and bowls at both ends of the table, with the ham or turkey already sliced. The food was never cold
. Every plate and bowl sat on a trivet of some kind, yes, that’s it, silver trivets that were like pockets filled with hot water.” She laughed. “What about holiday meals at your home when you were young, Hannah?”
Melancholy curtained Hannah’s face. “Tension. Can’t remember the food, or if it was hot or cold. My father, before he walked out on us, drank heavily, especially on holidays. We never knew if, or when, he’d explode, so we ate in silence and quickly.” She shook her head. “I shortchanged my daughters. Bill drank too, as you know. Our holidays were perfunctory, to be gotten through as quickly as possible. I guess I didn’t know any other way.” She brightened. “Best holidays are now, with you both, and our friends. I appreciate the pizzazz and enthusiasm you bring to all the holidays.”
“Well,” Grace said, “let’s clear this table and get the leaves in. Time to set it for dinner. How about using the rose tablecloth under a lace cloth? It’ll give a warm glow and set off Amelia’s Spode china. By the way . . .” She stopped, opening the buffet drawer where the tablecloths were. “Let’s put Tyler at the head of the table. He’ll be so excited when he sees the ribbon with the medal we had inscribed for him. You want to slip it over his head, Hannah? Amelia?”
“We think you should do it,” Amelia said.
They tidied up snippets of red, white, and green ribbon, and left-over scraps of Christmas paper. Then Hannah and Amelia carried their packages to the living room and arranged them under the tree alongside Grace’s. There were piles of boxes dropped off by Mike and the Richardsons, and a large one from Wayne, Old Man, and Lurina.
That evening, Max was the last to arrive, and he followed the carolers up the drive to the front porch and stood behind them as they sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” “Silent Night,” “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and ended with “Jolly Old St. Nicholas.” They did not depart empty-handed; Grace presented Claudia’s daughter, Paulette, with a round hatbox tin all wrapped in red and green paper and tied with one of Amelia’s huge red bows. It was filled with Christmas tree and angel-shaped sugar cookies that Tyler had carefully stamped out that morning.
When Max entered the house, he propped a bulky, rectangular package wrapped in blue and silver paper along the wall next to the tree. Apple cider whetted their appetites for dinner, and within a half hour they were all seated at the dining room table. A new Oriental rug anchored the table. The room floated in soft candlelight reflecting off the rosy wallpaper. For a centerpiece Hannah had placed a long, low bowl overflowing with fragrant white camellias.
Then the feast began. Besides the magnificent golden turkey and stuffing, there were mashed white potatoes as well as a candied sweet potato casserole, green beans slathered with toasted almonds, creamed peas and onions, and fresh baked buns.
Tyler sat straight and proud and beamed from the head of the table. Emily sat to his right, his father to his left. He had examined everything under Granny Grace’s tree, had seen and handled a big box wrapped in paper dotted with snowmen and tagged with his name from Emily and Dad. A computer. He had overheard them talking about it.
They ate quietly for a time, concentrating on the food. Christmas music from a cassette played low in the background. Max turned to Hannah on his left and said softly, “I’ve an idea I’d like to discuss with you sometime, about Jake Anson’s land.”
She nodded. Across the table and down a ways, Wayne thought she was nodding at him. He waved his fork and smiled. At least she’d gotten him to take off his hat at meals.
After they had all had second helpings and were nearly finished eating, Max tapped the side of his wineglass with his dessert fork and lifted it to Hannah. The ruby wine sloshed in the fine crystal goblet, Grace’s contribution to their fine dining. His nose was red. Maybe he had been crying at home for Bella, this first Christmas without her. “To Hannah,” Max said, “a woman of determination and courage.” Everyone sipped their wine. He raised his glass again, and to Grace. “Grace. Thank you for a magnificent supper.”
Moving her lips slightly and smiling, Grace thanked Max. Bob squeezed her hand. This was what holidays should be like, bountiful with food, a sense of great good will, laughter, everyone flushed and happy and delighted to be together.
Mike toasted Amelia, “My dear friend, and magnificent photographer.” They drank again.
Bob raised his glass. “To marriage, Lurina and Joseph Elisha, and Russell and Emily.” Everyone cheered.
Then Grace rose. “And a toast to the boy of the hour, our hero, Tyler.”
Everyone clapped, then sipped their drinks. Grace walked over to the buffet table. Tucked among the Vienna cake and the cookies was a long, narrow jewelry box. She stood behind Tyler and opened it, then placed the wide green and red ribbon around his neck. On the end hung a round, important-looking medal. “Read what it says, Tyler.”
Tyler turned it over and read slowly. “Tyler Richardson. His brave act stopped a robbery and caught a thief. Bravo!”
“And won the heart of a maiden.” Emily squeezed his hand.
Tyler’s face turned beet red and tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but he did not cry. He stood and bowed, then he flung his arms about Grace and went from person to person at the table hugging and kissing everyone. “Can we open presents before dessert?” he asked.
“We certainly can,” Bob said rising. “Come along, all of you. Leave the table, Grace. We’ll all help later.”
As sedate as dinner had been, the opening of the gifts was tumultuous with much laughter, exclamations of delight, thank-yous, and oohing and aahing, especially over Tyler’s computer. Hannah had given him a monitor and Grace and Bob’s gift to Tyler was a printer.
Other gifts were opened then. Upon unwrapping Hannah’s gifts Amelia and Grace slipped off their shoes and donned their new fleece socks. Grace presented Bob with a loose, wobbly package of bathroom towels and new sheets for his apartment, and he gave her a gold charm bracelet from which dangled a farmhouse, a big cookie, a teapot, a children’s book, and a heart with their names inscribed.
There was not a dry eye except Tyler’s when Old Man presented Lurina with a brand-new Bible, for keeping a record of their life together. She gave him a framed photo of herself when she was young, and bright-eyed, and laughing, and several plaid flannel shirts Grace had bought at her request. “Get ’em real bright now, red, blue, green.” When Old Man held his new shirts to his chest, everyone said he looked splendid, and Lurina beamed.
The mystery box from Lurina, Wayne, and Old Man contained a portable electric keyboard. “One of you is gonna have to learn to play the weddin’ march,” Lurina informed them. She and Old Man sat side by side, holding hands, and grinning ear to ear.
Finally all that was left was the big package Max had brought. Slipping a pocketknife from his pants pocket, he sliced the silver and blue covering away and removed three canvases. Hannah gasped. “Oh, Max, Bella’s paintings.”
“You planting your front yard.” He leaned toward Hannah. “Bella inserted a yellow daffodil here in the corner, and signed it along the stem.”
Tears filled Hannah’s eyes as she touched the edge of the canvas. For Hannah with love, Bella Maxwell “It’s wonderful,” she said. “How incredibly kind of Bella.”
“She had me bring it downstairs to her bed so she could put in the daffodil and sign it.” There were tears in Max’s voice. He cleared his throat. “She wanted you to have it.” He removed the other two canvases and presented them to Grace and Amelia. Bella’s signature was tiny and in the comer. “Bella had so hoped to sit and have tea on your porch with you ladies.”
Amelia struggled for words. “I never met her, and she did this for me?” She held the painting up and studied it. “I remember this day. I was certain I’d never master the technical aspects of photography, and you, Hannah, urged me not to give up.” She held the painting at arm’s length. “I hung my straw hat with the berries on it outside on the wall of the house across from the stream, and shot pictures of it.”
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br /> The others nodded.
“It’s a lovely painting,” Grace said. “See how the trees bend toward the stream? The water sparkles, and you sitting there eyes glued to your camera. Bella didn’t know us then, yet she did these paintings. Remarkable.”
“She watched you every single day from her bed,” Max said. “I wish I’d done something about getting you over to meet her sooner.”
Grace’s painting depicted the three ladies in their rockers on a porch dripping with flowers. Grace’s heart swelled. How very good it was to be here in this house, in this room with these people. She was lost in these thoughts when Mike stood and clapped his hands for attention.
“I have a surprise for you all. If I may.” He opened the new keyboard. “I was privy to this gift, and I’ve been taking lessons.” Moving quickly among them, he handed out song sheets. “Let’s sing, shall we? ‘Frosty the Snow Man,’ then ‘Jingle Bells.’ ” Mike cracked his knuckles. His fingers tickled the keys, and then the music swelled and he played and they sang way past Tyler’s bedtime, and Old Man’s bedtime, and Lurina’s bedtime. They sang and rocked from side to side, and held hands and sat in a circle as they welcomed Christmas Day with soaring spirits.
36
The Painful Truth About Lance
Lance returned to Covington on January 16. A miffed Amelia, still waiting anxiously for word from the detective she’d hired, watched from her bedroom window as Lance slammed his car door and started up the walk. She took a deep breath. In his weeks away he had not phoned, or sent a card, and not having a gift from him under their tree had humiliated her. With a new resolve, she had resumed her old life photographing, and spending time with Mike, Hannah, and Grace.
Lance looked up, saw her at her window, smiled and waved, and that simple gesture set butterflies skittering inside of her. She brought clenched fists against her thighs. Why had he come back? She leaned against her dresser. God, she was glad to see him.
The Gardens of Covington Page 25