“I’m going to get you out of there. How the hell do you get her out of there? Oh, just look at you!” Ada Mae covered Callie’s face with kisses as Shelby released the harness, the seat belt. “You’re pretty as a sunbeam in May. And what a pretty dress, too. Oh, give your Gamma a big hug.”
In her yellow sling-back heels, Ada Mae turned circles in the road while Callie clung to her like a burr.
“We’re all over the place.” Tears slid down Ada Mae’s cheeks as she circled.
“Don’t cry, Gamma.”
“That’s just joy spilling out, and good thing I’ve got waterproof mascara. We’re out here, in the house, out the backyard where they’ve got the big grill going already. We’ve got food to feed the army we are, and some champagne, too, to celebrate.”
With Callie on her hip, Ada Mae pulled Shelby in for a three-generation hug. “Welcome home, baby.”
“Thank you, Mama, more than I can say.”
“Let’s get you inside, get you some sweet tea. The moving van was here not two hours ago.”
“Already?”
“Carted everything right up to Callie’s room. We’ve got it all made up so sweet and pretty. Your room’s right next to your mama’s,” she said as they walked to the house. “I put you in Clay’s old room, Shelby, as it’s bigger than the one you had. It’s been fresh painted, and we got a new mattress. The old was worn out. Callie’s in Forrest’s old room, so you know you’ll share that bath between them. We got some nice new towels in there for you. Got them from your granny’s spa, so they’re nice.”
Shelby would’ve said she shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, but if Ada Mae wasn’t fussing, she wasn’t breathing.
“Gilly baked a cake, all fancy. She’s about ready to pop, but that girl can bake like Betty Crocker.”
Her brother Clay came out. He’d gotten his parents’ height, and their father’s coloring with his dark hair and eyes. Grinning, he plucked Shelby off her feet, spun her like a top.
“About time you got here,” he murmured in her ear.
“Soon as I could.”
“Give her over,” he ordered his mother, and snatched Callie. “Hey there, sunshine. Remember me?”
“Unca Clay.”
“Girls always remember the handsome ones. Let’s go find some trouble.”
“If anybody can,” Ada Mae said, and wrapped an arm around Shelby’s waist. “You need a cold drink and a chair.”
“I feel like I’ve been sitting for days, but I’d take the cold drink.”
Family spread around the house so there were more hugs and welcomes, more yet when they reached the kitchen. Gilly—and she did look ready to pop—stood with a boy just a year younger than Callie on her hip.
“I’ve got him.” Clay transferred his son, Jackson, to his other hip. “Got me a set now.” He took off running out the back door, letting out a war hoop that had both kids squealing.
“Born to be a daddy. And a good thing,” Ada Mae added, giving Gilly’s belly a gentle pat. “You get off your feet now.”
“I’m feeling fine. Even better now.” She wrapped her arms around Shelby, swayed with the hug. “It’s so good to see you. We’ve got pitchers of tea outside, and plenty of beer. And four bottles of champagne—your mama has decreed it’s for the ladies only, as none of the men here can appreciate it.”
“Sounds about right. I’ll start with the tea.” Shelby hadn’t caught her breath, not yet, but decided she’d catch it later. “Gilly, you just look wonderful.”
Hair as sunny as Clay’s was dark, slicked back in a pretty tail to leave her face—round with pregnancy—unframed. Eyes of cornflower blue sparkled.
“Really wonderful. Are you doing good?”
“I’m doing great. Five weeks and two days to go.”
Shelby made her way outside, onto the wide back porch, looking over the big backyard with its vegetable patch already sprouting, kids clambering over a swing set, a grill smoking, picnic tables lined up like soldiers with balloons tied to chairs.
Her father stood at the grill—the general—in one of his silly aprons. This one suggested you kiss his grits.
She was in his arms in seconds. She wouldn’t break down, she told herself. She just wouldn’t spoil it. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey, Shelby.”
He bent from his six feet, two inches, kissed the top of her head. Handsome and fit, a marathon runner for pleasure, a country doctor by trade, he held her close.
“You’re too thin.”
“Mama said she’d fix that.”
“Then she will.” He drew her back. “The doctor says food, drink, plenty of sleep and pampering. That’ll be twenty dollars.”
“Put it on my bill.”
“That’s what they all say. Go, get that drink. I’ve got ribs to finish.”
As she stepped back, she was caught in a round-the-back bear hug. She recognized the wonderful prickle of whiskers, wriggled around and hugged. “Grandpa.”
“I was just saying to Vi the other day, ‘Vi, something’s missing around here. Can’t quite put my finger on it.’ Now I got it. It was you.”
She reached up, rubbed her palm over the stone-gray whiskers, looked up into his merry blue eyes. “I’m glad you found me.” She laid her head against his barrel of a chest. “It looks like a carnival here. Everything full of fun and color.”
“It’s time you came back to the carnival. You fixing to stay?”
“Jack,” Clayton muttered.
“I’ve been ordered not to ask questions.” Those merry eyes could turn pugnacious in a finger snap—and did. “But I’m damned if I won’t ask my own granddaughter if she’s fixing to stay home this time.”
“It’s all right, Daddy, and yeah, I’m fixing to stay.”
“Good. Now Vi’s giving me the hard eye ’cause I’m keeping you from her. At your six,” he said, and turned her around.
There she was, Viola MacNee Donahue, in a bright blue dress, her Titan hair in a sassy curling wedge, big movie star sunglasses tipped down her nose, and her eyes bold and blue over them.
She didn’t look like anyone’s granny, Shelby thought, but called out to her as she flew over the lawn.
“Granny.”
Viola dropped her hands from her hips, threw out her arms.
“About damn time, but I guess you saved the best for last.”
“Granny. You’re so beautiful.”
“Aren’t you lucky to look just like me? Or like I did some forty years back. It’s the MacNee blood, and good skin care. That little angel of yours has the same.”
Shelby turned her head, smiled as she saw Callie with cousins, rolling on the grass with a couple of young dogs. “She’s my heart and soul.”
“I know it.”
“I should’ve—”
“Should’ves are a waste. We’re going to take a little walk,” she said when Shelby’s eyes filled. “Take a look at your daddy’s vegetable patch. Best tomatoes in the Ridge. You put the worry aside now. Just put it aside.”
“There’s too much of it, Granny. More than I can say right now.”
“Worry doesn’t get things done, it just gives a woman lines in her face. So you put the worry aside. What needs doing will get done. You’re not alone now, Shelby.”
“I . . . forgot what it feels like not to be, so all this seems like a dream.”
“This is what’s real and always has been. Come here, darling, hold on awhile.” She drew Shelby close, rubbed her back. “You’re home now.”
Shelby looked out at the mountains, smoked with clouds, so strong, so enduring, so true.
She was home now.
5
Somebody brought out her grandfather’s banjo, and in short order her uncle Grady’s wife, Rosalee, had a fiddle, her brother Clay his guitar. They wanted bl
uegrass, the music of the mountains. Those high bright notes, the close harmony of strings plucked and sawed stirred memories in her, lit a light inside her. A kind of birth.
Here were her beginnings, in the music and the mountains, in the green and the gatherings.
Family, friends, neighbors swarmed the picnic tables. She watched her cousins dancing on the lawn, her mother in her yellow heels swinging little Jackson to the rhythm. And there, her father with Callie in his lap having what appeared to be a very serious conversation while they ate potato salad and barbecued ribs.
Her grandmother’s laugh carried over the music as Viola sat cross-legged on the lawn, sipping champagne and grinning up at Gilly.
Her mother’s younger sister Wynonna kept a hawk eye on her youngest girl, who seemed joined at the hip with a skinny guy in torn-up jeans her aunt referred to as “that Hallister boy.”
As her cousin Lark was sixteen and as curvy as a mountain road, Shelby figured the hawk eye was warranted.
People kept pushing food on her, so she ate because she felt her mother’s own hawk eye on her. She drank champagne even though it made her think of Richard.
And she sang because her grandfather asked her to. “Cotton-Eyed Joe” and “Salty Dog,” “Lonesome Road Blues” and “Lost John.” The lyrics came back to her like yesterday, and the simple fun of it, singing out in the yard, letting the music rise toward the big sunstruck blue bowl of the sky, soothed her battered heart.
She’d let this go, she thought, let all of it go for a man she’d never really known and a life she knew had been false from the first to the last.
Wasn’t it a miracle that what was real and true was here waiting for her?
When she could get away, she slipped into the house, wandered upstairs. Her heart just flooded when she stepped into Callie’s room.
Petal-pink walls and fussy white curtains framing the window that looked out on the backyard, and the mountains beyond it. All the pretty white furniture, and the bed with its pink-and-white canopy all set up. They’d even arranged some of the dolls and toys and books on the white bookcase, tucked some of the stuffed animals on the bed.
Maybe the room was half the size of the one in the big house, but it looked just exactly right. She moved through the Jack and Jill bathroom—sparkling, as her mother would have it no other way—and into what had been her brother’s room. What was her room now.
Her old iron bed where she’d slept and dreamed through childhood faced the window, just as it had in the room down the hall. As she’d liked it best so she could wake to the mountains. A simple white duvet covered it now, but Ada Mae being Ada Mae had set pillows in lace-edged shams against the iron headboard, and more in shades of green and blue mounded with them. A throw—blues and greens again—crocheted by her great-grandmother, lay folded at the foot.
The walls were a warm smoky green, like the mountains. Two watercolors—her cousin Jesslyn’s work—graced them. Soft dreamy colors, a spring meadow, a greening forest at dawn. A vase of white tulips—her favorite—sat on her old dresser, along with the picture in its silver frame of her holding Callie at eight weeks.
They’d brought her suitcases up. She hadn’t asked—hadn’t had to. The boxes, well, they were probably already stacked in the garage waiting for her to figure out what to do with the things she’d felt obliged to keep from a life that no longer seemed her own.
Overcome, she sat on the side of the bed. She could hear the music, the voices through the window. That’s how she felt, just a step apart, behind the glass, sitting in a room of her childhood, wondering what to do with what she’d carried with her. All she had to do was open the window and she’d be a part instead of apart.
But . . .
Right now, today, everyone said welcome home, and left all the rest unsaid. But the questions murmuring under the welcome would come. Part of what she carried with her were answers and still more questions.
How much should she tell, and how should she tell it?
What good would it do to tell anyone that her husband had been a liar, and a cheat—and she feared he might’ve been worse. She feared down deep in her bones he’d been a swindler and a thief. And yet whatever he’d been—even if it turned out to be worse—he was still the father of her child.
Dead, he couldn’t defend or explain any of it.
And sitting here brooding about it wasn’t solving a thing. She was wasting that welcome, that sunstruck day, the rising music. So she’d go down again, she’d have some cake—though she already felt a little queasy. Even as she ordered herself to get up, go down, she heard footsteps coming down the hall.
She got to her feet, put an easy smile on her face.
Forrest, her brother, the only one who hadn’t been there to welcome her, stepped into the doorway.
He didn’t have Clay’s height, skimmed just shy of six feet, and with a more compact build. A brawler’s build, their granny claimed (with some pride), and he’d done his share. He had his daddy’s dark hair, but his eyes, like hers, were bold and blue. They held hers now. Coolly, she thought, and full of the questions no one asked.
Yet.
“Hey.” She tried to boost up her smile. “Mama said you had to work today.” As a deputy—her brother the cop—a job that seemed to suit him like his skin.
“That’s right.”
He had sharp cheekbones, like their father, and his mother’s eyes. And right now he sported a faint purple bruise on his jaw.
“Been fighting?”
He looked blank for a moment, then flicked his fingers over his jaw. “In the line. Arlo Kattery—you’d remember him—got a little . . . rambunctious last night down at Shady’s Bar. They’re looking for you outside. I figured you’d be up here.”
“Back a few steps from where I started.”
He leaned on the jamb, doing his cool study of her face. “Looks like.”
“Damn it, Forrest. Damn it.” No one in the family could twist her up, wring her out and smooth her down again like Forrest. “When are you going to stop being mad at me? It’s been four years. Almost five. You can’t stay mad at me forever.”
“I’m not mad at you. Was, but I’m more into the annoyed stage now.”
“When are you going to stop being annoyed with me?”
“Can’t say.”
“You want me to say I was wrong, that I made a terrible mistake, running off with Richard like I did?”
He seemed to consider it. “That’d be a start.”
“Well, I can’t. I can’t say that because—” She pointed to the picture on the dresser. “That makes Callie a mistake, and she’s not. She’s a gift and a glory, and the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“You ran off with an asshole, Shelby.”
Every muscle in her body went hot and tight. “I didn’t think he was an asshole at the time or I wouldn’t have run off with him. What makes you so righteous, Deputy Pomeroy?”
“Not righteous, just right. It’s an annoyance to me that my sister took off with an asshole, and I’ve barely seen her or the niece who looks just like her in years.”
“I came when I could. I brought Callie when I could. I did the best I knew how. You want me to say Richard was an asshole? There I can oblige you, as it turns out he was. I had the bad judgment to marry an asshole. Is that better?”
“Some.” He kept his gaze level on hers. “Did he ever hit you?”
“No. God, no.” Stunned, she lifted her hands. “He never touched me that way. I swear.”
“You didn’t come back for funerals, for births, for weddings. Clay’s, you made Clay’s, but barely. How’d he keep you away?”
“It’s complicated, Forrest.”
“Simplify it.”
“He said no.” Temper began to simmer and burn inside her. “Is that simple enough?”
He stirred
himself to lift his shoulders, let them fall. “You didn’t always take no for an answer so easy.”
“If you think it was easy, you’re wrong.”
“I need to know why you looked so tired, so thin, so beaten when you came home for what seemed like ten minutes at Christmas.”
“Maybe because I’d come to realize I’d married an asshole, and one who didn’t even like me very much.”
Temper hammered against guilt with guilt slapping against fatigue.
“Because I’d come to realize before I found myself a widow and my child without a father that I didn’t love him, not even a little. And didn’t like him much, either.”
Tears clogged her throat, threatening to burst through the dam she’d so laboriously built to hold them back.
“But you didn’t come home?”
“No, I didn’t come home. Maybe I married an asshole because I was an asshole myself. Maybe I couldn’t figure out how to pull myself and Callie out of the muddy mess I’d made. Can you leave it at that for now? Can that be enough for now? If I have to talk about all the rest of it now, I think I’ll break into pieces.”
He walked over, sat beside her. “Maybe I’ll move annoyed down to mildly irked.”
Tears swam and spilled; she couldn’t help it. “Mildly irked’s progress.” She turned, pressed her face to the side of his shoulder. “I missed you so much. Missed you like an arm or a leg or half my heart.”
“I know.” He draped an arm around her. “I missed you the same. It’s why it’s taken close to five years to get down to mildly irked. I got questions.”
“You always have questions.”
“Like why you drove down from Philadelphia in a minivan that’s older than Callie, and with a couple of suitcases and a bunch of packing boxes and what looks like a big-ass flat-screen TV.”
“That’s for Daddy.”
“Huh. Show-off. I got more questions yet, but I’ll wait on them. I’m hungry and I want a beer—I want a couple of beers. And if I don’t get you down there shortly, Mama’s bound to come looking, then she’ll skin my ass for making you cry.”
“I need some time to settle myself before the questions start. I need to breathe for a while.”
The Liar Page 7