The Sweetgum Ladies Knit for Love

by Beth Pattillo

  The unexpected touch sent a shock through her. She released Ranger’s collar and snatched her hand away.

  Brody’s eyes met hers, and she realized he saw her reaction in them. Color flooded her cheeks, so she turned away and marched toward the kitchen. “Treat, Ranger,” she called to the dog, a shameless bribe. “Let’s have a treat.”

  The dog followed hot on her heels, but to her dismay, so did Brody.

  “That’s his second favorite word,” she said, trying to act nonchalant. As if she hadn’t jumped a mile at his touch. As if she didn’t find him—She was not going to finish that thought.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” Brody said as he followed her into the kitchen, “but what’s his favorite word?”

  “G-o,” Esther said, resorting to spelling it out. If she said it, there’d be no appeasing the dog until they took at least a walk around the block.

  Brody laughed. “Does it hurt?”

  Esther blushed, although she didn’t exactly know what he meant by his question. “Does what hurt?”

  “Being so tightly wrapped around that dog’s paw.”

  This time her flush rose clear to her hairline. “I—” She started to defend herself, but she was reaching into the treat jar and realized her actions spoke volumes more than her words. “Okay, okay. Guilty as charged.”

  “The only thing I’m charging you with is caring about this walking pile of trouble here.” He paused. “Is he still sleeping on the pillow?”

  Esther couldn’t see any use in denying it. “Yes. But at least he’s stopped digging up the rosebushes.”

  “How’d you get him to do that?”

  She couldn’t help smiling a little. “I let him dig up the hydrangeas instead.”

  Brody McCullough’s laugh, Esther decided a second later, was one of the most wonderful sounds she’d ever heard. Deep, rich, like leather and mahogany and velvet all woven together. She let it wash over her, and a little of the grief and strain and worry of the last months eased.

  Her gaze caught his, and an indefinable look passed between them—part recognition, part connection. Part attraction. Esther turned away before he could see her blush again.

  She was on the wrong side of fifty, and he had to be at least ten years her junior. She was a widow, and he was bound to be the most eligible bachelor in town. Shed never made herself ridiculous before, and she wasn’t about to start.

  Thankfully, the doorbell rang again.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured, and she walked away as quickly as her high heels and the hardwood floors would allow. Ranger didn’t follow, having apparently decided that he’d rather stay with Brody—or at least in the vicinity of the treat jar.

  Although she’d fully intended to absent herself as soon as she’d let the real estate agent and her client in the front door, Esther somehow found herself staying and giving the prospective buyer a personal tour of her home. The man, James Delevan, was tall and distinguished. Although he might have been the same age as Brody McCullough, he seemed far older. His face was a bit world-weary, Esther decided. Handsome but tired. She wondered what had brought him to Sweetgum but was too polite, too southern, to come right out and ask.

  “The veranda is my favorite part of the house,” she said as they neared the end of the tour. She ushered the two men and the real estate agent, a young woman in her midthirties, out the french doors that led from the kitchen to the outside. She’d saved the best for last. Even at the beginning of winter, the view of the yard, with its extensive flower beds, rivaled an English garden for beauty.

  “I can see why.” James Delevan nodded with approval. “You’ve put a great deal of work into this.”

  “Yes.” A lump settled in her throat and prevented her from saying anything more. Her pride in the beauty she’d created melted under the despair of losing everything she’d worked for. The maple she’d planted shortly after her son, Alex, was born. The hostas that came from her mother’s home. A stand of crab apple trees in the back corner near the fence that provided fruit for jelly and shade for picnics. Her greenhouse, not large but adequate for cultivating her roses. All of this would be someone else’s very soon.

  “You’ve been very kind to show us around,” James said with a nod. He looked at the agent, who was new to the business and didn’t seem to know quite what to do next. “I think it’s time to leave Mrs. Jackson in peace.” He turned back to Esther. “You should be hearing from us very soon.”

  Why should good news make her feel so bad? “I’ll look forward to it.”

  She could feel Brody’s eyes on her, watching her, assessing her, and she refused to look his direction. Right now she needed every bit of strength to maintain her composure.

  Her beautiful home. Her stomach knotted, and she felt the same stab of grief she did when she thought of Frank. Not that anyone could equate the two losses—a husband and a house-but they were wrapped up in each other, inseparable. If she could have the first back, she would also have the other.

  Esther trailed the other three as they made their way back through the house. Brody had secured Ranger in his crate at the beginning of the tour through blatant bribery. Esther appreciated his offer to entice the dog into dreaded captivity but now he wasn’t there to nip at their heels and distract her from her unwelcome, unwarranted attraction to Brody McCullough.

  “Good-bye,” she called to James Delevan and the agent as they descended the front steps and headed down the walk toward a low-slung Mercedes sedan. Esther didn’t know whether the car belonged to the man or the young woman, but they both looked perfectly at home in it. She paused outside the front door, waiting for Brody to say good-bye and leave as well, but he lingered, and she couldn’t simply shut the door in his face, no matter how much she might want to dash into the house, fling herself on the bed, and bury her face in the pillow.

  “Esther…” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Look, I know that was difficult for you—”

  “I’m fine.” The tremor in her voice belied her words.

  “I don’t think you are.”

  She lifted her chin, turned to look him square in the eye. “I don’t believe you’re in a position to form an opinion one way or the other, Dr. McCullough.” She hadn’t ruled Sweetgum society for almost three decades for nothing. “Although, of course, I appreciate your concern.”

  “I think I should take you out to dinner.”

  Esther shook her head, mostly to disguise the way his statement made her knees shake in a similar manner. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I’m not talking about being hungry.”

  She arched one eyebrow, giving him her haughtiest look. Oh? “Then what are you talking about, doctor?”

  “Common decency Concern. Being a friend.”

  “A friend?” He was her vet, for crying out loud. “I wasn’t aware we had anything more than a professional relationship.”

  He shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “Esther Jackson, you are one tough nut to crack.”

  “How flattering.”

  But he refused to be chilled by her manner, to be frozen out. “You can’t fool me though. That’s the thing. I know your secret.”

  “My secret?” Everything within her froze. Which one? She had a number to choose from.

  “I’ve seen you with Ranger. You’re not the ice queen you want people to think.”

  The words ice queen hit her hard. She was composed and in control, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings, didn’t experience pain or feel happiness as deeply as anyone else.

  “What people think of me is out of my control.”

  “Not entirely.” He took a step closer, and for a moment she feared he would reach out and touch her. Feared it and wished for it, all at the same time. “You’re a lot like your house.”

  Her head snapped up. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, it’s beautiful. Polished. Decorated like you were getting ready for a photographer from Southern Living. But it’s all windo
w dressing.”

  “Window dressing?” Hurt pinged through her chest. “Are you saying I’m a phony?”

  He shook his head. “No, no. What I’m saying is that the house is a facade. It’s everything you would expect it to be, but there’s no warmth here. No passion.”

  Anger blossomed in her stomach and rose upward. “You have no right—”

  “There it is. The passion. It’s behind all the window dressing. Just like what you’ve created out there.” He motioned toward the back of the house. “That view from the veranda—the yard, the garden—that’s where the life is. Every part of it is a testimony to your touch. I can tell just by looking at it. Not like the house. You hired a decorator for that, didn’t you?”

  How could he know that? How could he see into her soul when he barely knew her?

  “I have no idea what you—”

  “Have dinner with me,” he said again. “Please.”

  Their gazes met, locked. Esther had never felt like this in her life. No one had ever challenged her for control, not like this. And yet she knew he wasn’t trying to manipulate or dominate her. In her experience, relationships had always been about gaining the upper hand and never leaving herself vulnerable. Especially after—

  Maybe it was midlife hormones. Maybe it was reading too much Gone with the Wind in one sitting. Or maybe it was just the crushing loneliness and fear that had weighed on her every day since she’d knelt beside Frank’s dead body on that putting green.

  “All right,” she said, breathless with fear and a growing feeling of excitement. “All right. I’ll have dinner with you.”

  Her husband hadn’t been dead for more than four months. People in Sweetgum would be scandalized. But at that moment, Esther didn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. For the first time in a very long time, she could feel the blood flowing through her veins, the breath moving in and out of her lungs. Normally, she only felt this way in her garden, but since the moment she’d met Brody McCullough on the lake road, something in her had reawakened.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said.

  “Fine.”

  And then he was gone.

  She was a fool, but at that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when the scent of pine from the windbreak on the west side of the house filled her senses almost as much as Brody McCullough.

  December arrived on the winds of a cold front that frosted windshields in the early morning and gave the popular girls at Sweetgum High a chance to show off their Ugg boots.

  Hannah, in Converse tennis shoes she’d covered with ink doodles, followed the line of pompom girls into the rest room after her first class. A six-minute passing period didn’t allow for much standing around, although that’s exactly what a lot of the girls were doing. Putting their hair up, taking it down, applying lip gloss and then removing it in favor of a different shade. Hannah waited her turn for a stall. Fortunately, it didn’t take long. She was almost done when she heard Courtney’s voice above the general din.

  “It’s so pathetic, the way she’s chasing him. He practically has to step over her in the hall since she’s always underfoot.”

  Hannah’s spine tingled. The last couple of weeks hadn’t been much fun since Josh had blurted out the truth. Almost as soon as he’d moved back to Sweetgum, Courtney had maneuvered him into asking her to the homecoming dance. And so on that important night, Hannah had slunk off to the Knit Lit Society instead of entering the gym with Josh. He’d apologized all over himself brought her a single rose—everything he could think of to make it up to her. But it had still hurt, even if it was clear he would’ve preferred to spend the evening with her.

  For a while, since last year, Courtney and the others had left Hannah alone. It helped that Courtney’s mom was also a member of the Knit Lit Society. They’d finished middle school in a sort of truce, but once they’d walked through the doors of Sweet-gum High, that had changed. Especially once Josh made his preference for Hannah clear.

  “Josh is such a hottie,” another girl chimed in. “I can’t believe he’d look twice at a loser like Hannah Simmons.”

  Hannah’s hand froze on the lock of the stall door.

  “Well, she can crawl after him all she wants, but he took me to the homecoming dance.” Courtney always sounded confident.

  “By senior year you’ll be prom king and queen.” A third voice joined the conversation.

  “Yeah, and Hannah’ll be throwing herself at his feet while they put the crown on his head.” Everyone laughed at that. Hannah swallowed hard, determined not to cry.

  “C’mon, you guys, we’re going to be late.” The zip of purses, the sound of cell phones snapping shut. Hannah stayed put long enough to give them time to leave the rest room. She would have waited until the bell rang, but she couldn’t afford another tardy. She slipped out of the stall and crossed to the sink to wash her hands. The lone remaining occupant of the rest room, a chess club geek named Gloria, smiled sympathetically. Hannah tried to return her smile, but when she looked in the mirror she saw that it came out more like a grimace.

  “Pompoms are so superficial,” the girl said.

  “Yeah.” Even though Hannah knew Courtney’s comments sprang from jealousy, she also felt the bitter sting of rejection. Josh had said he couldn’t back out of taking Courtney to the dance. His mom had insisted he keep his word. But a little seed of doubt had been planted in Hannah’s mind and heart.

  With a last glance in the mirror, and then a wish that she hadn’t, Hannah hoisted her backpack strap higher on her shoulder and left the rest room.

  Merry straightened the notepad on her desk blotter and laid her pen across it at a perfect forty-five-degree angle. She took a moment to admire the pristine top of the desk.

  A few weeks ago, when she’d started work full time, the desktop had looked nothing like this. Then, piles of paper, stacks of legal folders, random law books and legal journals had been shoved, crammed, and piled on the desk. Mitzi, Jeff’s assistant, was a very capable paralegal, but organization wasn’t her strong suit, so Merry had taken over the job of office management. She’d filed until her eyes were almost crossed, shelved and cataloged the heavy books and multitude of law review magazines. She’d answered the phone, typed correspondence, made endless copies of endless documents. She’d even had time to sneak in a little reading for the Knit Lit Society. By all rights, she should be exhausted. And grumpy. After all, she’d never wanted this job in the first place and was only doing it because Jeff was so desperate.

  But somewhere in the last few weeks, once she’d gotten more accustomed to the wrenching pain of leaving Hunter at day care each day, she had come to enjoy what she was doing. Family management and office management weren’t such different creatures. Plus, at Jeff’s law office, no one was likely to throw a sippy cup at her and scream “Juice!” at the top of his lungs.

  Merry chuckled. She’d been out of the grown-up world for so long that she’d forgotten what it felt like. Satisfying work was a self-esteem boost, she had to admit. At home, she knew she was a good, if imperfect, mother, but any validation of her efforts was mostly indirect. A blissfully napping baby who’d been fed, changed, and rocked into dreamland. A teenager who muttered a thank-you as she stalked off to her room with a new outfit Merry had ordered online only to be told it was the wrong color. Her son Jake’s rambunctious hugs when she made his favorite dinner of Sloppy Joes. Or Sarah’s pleasure in a new box of crayons for the first day of kindergarten. At home, feedback usually came tinged with criticism or a lead-up to a request for something else. But in Jeff’s office… Well, the phrase “night and day” sprang to mind.

  “Merry?” Jeff’s voice pulled her away from her admiration of her desktop.

  “Yes?” She looked up and found him perched on the side of her desk.

  “You were off in your own little world.” He smiled. “Plotting my overthrow?” He looked around the office. “It’s a good thing you don’t have a law degree or I’d be out
of a job.”

  “Thanks.” Even after four kids and years of marriage, his compliment pleased her immensely because she knew Jeff’s good opinion wasn’t given lightly. “Did you need me for something?”

  He slid several folders onto the desk. “Can you type these up for me?”

  When it came to using a keyboard, Jeff had ten thumbs, so he still wrote most things by hand, sometimes printing off a template, then scratching words out and inserting others. Because she knew how his mind worked, she didn’t find it difficult to make sense of his method.

  “Will do.”

  Jeff laughed. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

  “No, just a brilliant office manager.”

  He paused, his smile softened, and then his expression grew more serious. “I know it’s not easy. You have even more on your plate than before. Promise me you’ll say something if it gets to be too much.”

  Merry nodded. “I will. But really, I’m okay. One of the other working moms from the church gave me a really good piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When in doubt, lower your standards.”

  She laughed along with Jeff, because for years she had been the one who’d insisted that cloth napkins must be used at all times, that the ornaments on the Christmas tree had to be arranged just so, that children could never be seen wearing jeans to church. In the last few weeks, she really had lowered her standards, and to her surprise it felt pretty good. Her schedule was hectic, but in some ways she was more relaxed, as if by giving herself permission to be imperfect, she’d made it easier to do things well. A paradox she hadn’t anticipated.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Jeff said, leaning over to give her a quick kiss. He reached down and picked up his briefcase. She hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  “You’re headed out?”

  “Court date in Columbia. I’m sorry. I thought I told you.”

  “Will you be home late?” Now that she had a better understanding of his world, she could be more understanding about the hours he kept. Before, all she could see was that he seemed to be choosing work over family. Now she knew that in many ways, his time was not his own. He was at the mercy of clients, judges, court reporters, and just about everyone else with whom he came into contact.