The Sweetgum Ladies Knit for Love

by Beth Pattillo

  The James Delevan who’d spent the morning by her side in the kitchen, elbow deep in sweet potatoes and beans, was not the same stuffy stranger who’d first come to her store or attended that covered dish dinner at the church. And he certainly wasn’t the same man she’d taken to the dentist that night. For one thing, he smiled quite a bit since all of his teeth were intact. And for another, he’d actually laughed at some of the jokes she and Daphne made. Something about him was different. The set of his shoulders was more relaxed, as was the line of his jaw.

  “Thank you,” Maria said as he helped her push her chair closer to the table. “You’ve certainly earned your share of the meal.” She intended it to be humorous, but the words came out more seriously than she intended. “We don’t usually turn our guests into indentured servants,” she added, trying to lighten her tone.

  “I enjoyed it,” was all he said.

  He’d already seen her mother to her seat, and now he turned his attentions to Daphne and Stephanie. His chivalry clearly pleased Daphne, and Stephanie looked over the moon. Maria could almost see her trying to calculate James’s net worth in her head. Since Stephanie had never progressed much past long division, that was no doubt a feat beyond her abilities.

  “Mama, would you like to say the blessing?” Maria asked.

  Althea’s head popped up. “The blessing?”

  Maria felt the flush that rose to her cheeks throughout her body. She didn’t want James Delevan to think they were total heathens. Not that they prayed before every meal, but her father had always done the honors on special occasions like this.

  Daphne looked worriedly at Maria. “Maybe you should—”

  “Dad always said the blessing,” Stephanie blurted with her usual lack of tact or sensitivity. “A man should say the blessing.”

  Maria didn’t agree with that statement for several reasons, not the least of which was that James again looked like he’d been poleaxed.

  “I can—,” she began.

  “I’d be glad to,” he interrupted, but then turned an apologetic look on her. “Sorry. Of course you’d rather do it. Your family. Your house.”

  Maria looked into his eyes, saw that haunted quality, and wondered again why he’d agreed to spend Christmas with them. He must have been really desperate or lonely. Or something equally awful.

  “No. I mean, if you don’t mind…” She cleared her throat. “It would be great if you said the blessing.”

  She wasn’t expecting much, a few formal, ritualized words like her father had always said. It had never been about the content of the prayer, of course. The ritual itself provided the meaning, the acknowledgment of the occasion.

  James did more than that. He invited them to bow their heads, and then he prayed. Not stiffly or formally, but not like some of the long-winded, self-important preachers Maria had heard either. His prayer was well-thought-out, reminded them of the bounty of their blessings, and asked for guidance and strength to live lives of gratitude.

  When he was done, everyone sat silently for a moment, even Stephanie and her mother, until Stephanie said, “Who’s going to carve the turkey?”

  Her question made Maria’s chest ache. Yet another of her fathers responsibilities, yet another hole in their lives. But once again James stepped into the void.

  “If you need me to, I can do it.”

  Maria looked at her mother, whose eyes were moist. The older woman nodded. “Please.”

  And that simply, that quickly, James Delevan found a place in the Munden family circle. It was the last place in the world Maria would have expected him to seem at home, but he did. He wielded the carving knife with experienced precision, and in another few moments all of the dishes had been handed around, the turkey had been distributed, and they were laughing and eating and squabbling as they had every other Christmas dinner of their lives.

  “So what does Scarlett learn about love?” Eugenie asked the assembled members of the Knit Lit Society on the third Friday in January.

  Esther looked around the table. The discussion would commence with one member notably absent. Although Hunter was much better, Merry still stuck close to his side. The baby’s illness, along with the rest of the upheaval the women were experiencing, had put a cloud over the group.

  “Love? Scarlett learns she’s better off without it.” Hannah’s answer was immediate. “She should have hooked up with Ashley and left Melanie to fend for herself.”

  “Scarlett was too young to know what she wanted. It takes maturity to learn what you want. Or who you want.” Maria shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as if she feared she’d revealed more than she’d intended. Esther thought she had. Maria wasn’t much past thirty, but the gray streaks in her hair, the faded wardrobe, and her lack of makeup added another decade. Someone needed to give her a makeover.

  “Do we ever really know what we want when it comes to love?” Eugenie asked. “Or do we come to understand that when it’s too late?”

  “It’s not always a Rhett or Ashley choice though, is it?” Camille didn’t look up from her needles. “The good guy or the bad boy. Life’s not that simple.”

  “Or that complicated.” Esther was weary of Eugenie’s way of confusing the simplest question. “I think we make it too… what’s the word? Messy, maybe. Or mysterious. We get carried away with our feelings.”

  “Scarlett was afraid of any man who was her equal,” Hannah said with authority. “She just wanted to dominate and manipulate Ashley. Kind of like most of the cheerleading squad at the high school.”

  Esther pursed her lips to keep from smiling. Hannah always tried to shock them, but mostly her insights were amusing. And accurate.

  “So how do we know if a man is an Ashley or a Rhett?” Eugenie asked.

  For a moment, Esther resented Eugenie’s analytical bent. The librarian had finally found the love of her life and could afford to be detached about the search for a mate. But Esther, having just lost hers, was at the opposite end of the spectrum. The prospect of finding another man with whom to share her life was so daunting that it made her want to run home, jump in bed, and pull the covers over her head. Especially when coupled with thoughts of Brody McCullough.

  Thoughts that made her blurt out an answer.

  “Frank was my Ashley Wilkes.” Esther’s words pierced the gloomy atmosphere, and the other women and Hannah looked at her as if she’d just sprouted another nose on her face.

  “Esther, I know it’s been a difficult time.” Eugenie reached over as if to pat her hand, then stopped herself. “That is to say—”

  “Then who’s your Rhett Butler?” Hannah asked. Fourteen-year-olds apparently had fewer qualms than adults when it came to impertinent questions.

  For once, Esther didn’t resent the teenager’s presence in the group. Hannah’s honesty ordinarily irritated her, but today Esther felt like confronting things—the past, her feelings, and the other women seated around the table.

  “I’m sure it’s the shock of the loss—,” Eugenie began, but Esther held up her hand and interrupted.

  “No, Eugenie. It’s the truth. I loved Frank, but was he my grand passion? I don’t know.” She felt her cheeks grow warm. Self-revelation was new to Esther, and she didn’t like it one bit, but something was happening to her. Whether it was that dog or the loss of her lifestyle or Brody McCullough in his decrepit pickup truck, she didn’t know. Whatever the cause might be, she couldn’t stop what was happening.

  “So who was your Rhett Butler, then?” Hannah asked again.

  “She might not want to answer that.” Maria laid down her yarn and needles and looked around the table. “We should respect her privacy.”

  Camille made a wry face. “A little late for that.” The others laughed, and the tension eased.

  “I’m just going to keep asking,” Hannah said. “Who is your Rhett Butler?”

  Esther paused and looked from one lady to another. Then she shook her head. “No. I can’t tell you.”

  “You have t
o tell us.” Camille leaned forward in her seat. “Come on. We deserve to know.”

  The others, except Eugenie, nodded in agreement. Esther suppressed a groan. Why had she opened her mouth to begin with?

  “All right. If you must know, I think Ranger is my Rhett Butler.”

  “Your dog?” Eugenie peered at her over the top of her reading glasses, confusion pulling at the corners of her eyes.

  “Yes. The dog.” Esther wanted to slide under the table in embarrassment.

  “He’s the love of your life?” Camille said. Esther could see amusement in the younger woman’s eyes.

  “Yes, I think he might be.”

  She’d expected them to burst out into laughter. Instead they all looked at each other, then at the table, and finally back at her.

  “Well,” Maria said. And then smiled.

  “Huh.” Camille resumed knitting.

  Hannah snorted. “The love of your life is a dog?”

  The laughter did erupt then, but it was good-natured and Esther didn’t take offense. She knew how strange it sounded, but it was also true. She only hoped none of the ladies repeated the story outside of their meeting. She’d fallen far enough in the eyes of Sweetgum as it was.

  “On that note,” Eugenie said, “perhaps we should share our projects.”

  “I’m guessing Esther knit Ranger a sweater,” Hannah said with a teasing grin. Esther laughed along with the others, but only to cover up the rawness of her emotions.

  Self-discovery should come with a first-aid kit, she decided.

  As the end of January approached, Hannah practically barricaded herself in her room at the parsonage and read, dispatching Wuthering Heights in a matter of days.

  She thought it was kind of a stupid story. All those people trying to be someone they weren’t and making themselves miserable in the process. In her heart though, she knew she wasn’t that different from the characters in the book. That had been her mistake with Josh. She’d tried to be someone she wasn’t—the quarterbacks girlfriend—and life, or fate or whatever you wanted to call it, had given her a major smack-down for her trouble.

  Since that horrible Saturday by the creek, she had refused to take Josh’s phone calls. Mrs. Carson looked at her with troubled eyes every time Hannah said to tell Josh she wasn’t home. Mrs. Carson never told that lie, of course. She said Hannah was “unavailable,” which was true. She didn’t have time for jerks who treated girls like dirt.

  One morning, though, when she turned up the walk that led to the front doors of the high school, Josh was sitting on the steps waiting for her. She almost pivoted on her heel and left, but she stopped herself and straightened her spine, hoisting her backpack higher on one shoulder. If she ran now, she’d be running the rest of the year.

  “Hey” Josh didn’t look good. His hair was mussed, and the collar of his polo shirt stuck up on one side. “I was waiting for you.”

  “I see that.” She wouldn’t make this easy for him, whatever he wanted to say. Not when just the sight of him made her want to burst into tears. Not when she could feel the eyes of dozens of other students on them, especially the heavily made-up ones belonging to the group of cheerleaders and pompom girls milling around by the front doors.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” He looked hurt, which sparked the latent anger in her heart.

  “Why won’t I talk to you?” She shook her head. “You really are a piece of work.” That was an expression her mother had always used, usually in reference to Hannah.

  Josh rose from the steps and towered over her. She wished he had stayed seated. It made it easier not to cry when she looked down on him instead of vice versa.

  “Look, Hannah, I know I messed up. I messed up big time.”

  “Yes. You did.”

  He wiped a hand across his face and looked at the ground for a long moment. “I’m sorry.” His eyes rose to meet her gaze. “I’m really sorry. I was stupid. I know that.”

  “That makes two of us.” She refused to give a single inch. Why should she make this easy for him? He hadn’t been humiliated in front of the entire school. Everyone knew. They looked at her with pity or laughter in their eyes, the slacker girl Josh Hargrove had led on, probably gotten what he wanted from, and then dumped. She knew what they were thinking.

  “What do you want, Hannah?” he asked, his voice tight. “Do you want me to grovel?” He moved as if to go down on one knee. “If that’s what it takes—”

  “Stop it.” She almost touched him, almost grabbed his arm to keep him from doing something that would draw even more notice than they were already getting. “You’ve humiliated me enough, okay? Just leave me alone.”

  That was the only way this would work. She had to cut him out of her life entirely, and he had to do the same with her. It was the only way for her to save face. They each had to pretend the other didn’t exist. Romeo and Juliet they were not. More like the mismatched Heathcliff and Cathy, only Hannah was Heath-cliff, the almost-beast, barely civilized.

  Josh reached out and put his hand on her arm. Hannah forced herself not to jump, not to react.

  “Don’t touch me.” She was proud of how calm her voice sounded. She refused to allow her heart rate to pick up. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

  Josh dropped his hand. “Would you please give me a chance to explain?”

  Hannah shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, Josh. I don’t know what I was thinking. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking at all.” Her throat tightened, and tears pricked at her eyes. “Go back to the football team and the cheerleaders and all of that, and just leave me alone. Leave me with at least a little dignity.”

  He dropped his hand, and his brown eyes filled with hurt. “So I’m not allowed to make a mistake?”

  “It was a lot more than a mistake, Josh. A mistake is forgetting your homework or throwing an interception.” She’d learned that much about football, sitting in the stands and silently cheering him on. “Everyone’s laughing at me, Josh. Me, not you. You’re still the great Josh Hargrove, football god, but I’m even more pathetic to all of them”—she waved toward the girls by the front doors—“than I was before.”

  “Hannah—”

  She stepped around him and walked toward the building.

  “I’m moving back to Alabama.”

  That stopped her, but she didn’t turn around. “When?”

  “Spring break.”

  Not that far away. Maybe after he left, the others would forget what had happened. Maybe they would let her return to her previous role as class loser instead of class laughingstock. She could only hope. Hope, and nurse a heart breaking at the news.

  The only thing more painful than having Josh in her life was not having him in it at all.

  “I’m sure they’ll welcome you back with open arms,” was all she could say before her voice broke. She raced up the steps, ignoring the curious looks from the other kids, and made a bee-line for her locker.

  One day at a time. One hour at a time. And soon, though not soon enough, he’d be gone and everyone would forget that brief period of time when Hannah Simmons thought she was good enough to date a jock.

  During her break that morning, Eugenie left the library and walked up the street to the church. The winter wind, damp and swirling, chilled her before she’d made it halfway between the two buildings. Eugenie was determined to corner Paul in his study and set a few matters straight.

  For more than two months, she’d held her peace about Paul’s decision to cut back to part-time pay, just as she’d harbored the secret of her conversations with Hazel. Hazel had been right about one thing at least—for a minister, there was no such thing as part-time work.

  What was Paul supposed to say to a parishioner who had an emergency late-night admission to the hospital? Or to the shut-ins he didn’t have time to visit if he restricted his hours? His salary adjustment had begun only a few weeks before, but already Eugenie could see his head bowed just a little lower, his shoulders drooping the sma
llest bit. Over time, she believed, those signs would worsen. Eugenie, of all people, knew that being paid a fair wage for hard work was vital to a persons self-esteem.

  Cora Lee, Paul’s new secretary, waved at Eugenie from behind the plate-glass window that separated the church offices from the foyer. Ruthie Allen, Esther’s sister, had been the church secretary until she’d left to do mission work in Africa last year. Eugenie missed Ruth a great deal. As unlike her sister as anyone could be, Ruth had provided the church with a calm, sensible presence. Cora Lee Bradford was more like a chicken on speed.

  Eugenie admonished herself for the uncharitable thought and smiled as much as possible when she returned Cora Lee’s wave. She opened the glass door and entered the office area.

  “Hey Eugenie.” Cora Lee’s bright red lips dominated her face beneath a shock of bleached blond hair. No one knew Cora Lee’s age for certain. She’d hopped from job to job in Sweetgum for as long as Eugenie could remember. When Ruthie left last year, Cora Lee had landed in her chair before anyone could say anything. Paul never complained about her, though, so Eugenie supposed she must be a good worker.

  “Good morning, Cora Lee. Is my husband in?”

  “He’ll be out in a tick. He’s got Hazel Emerson in there.” Cora Lee made a face. Eugenie had to school herself not to let her response to that bit of information show in her own expression.

  “I don’t mind waiting.”

  She didn’t have to linger long. A few minutes later, after she and Cora Lee had chatted about the weather and the new specials at Tallulah’s Café, Hazel and Paul emerged from the pastor’s study.

  “Your wife’s here,” Cora Lee said unnecessarily. Paul’s face had lit up at the sight of Eugenie, even as Hazel’s darkened.

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” Eugenie began, but Paul waved her words away.

  “I’m free. Let me just see Hazel to the door.”

  Hazel looked offended at the suggestion that she might need to be shown the door, but Eugenie recognized Paul’s strategy. She’d often employed it herself with problematic library patrons. Under the guise of politeness, you could nudge your problems right out the door.