by R. K. Ryals
Smiling, I picked up the supplies we’d finished with and walked toward his truck. The sound of tires on gravel met our ears, a car materializing on the drive.
My gaze went over my shoulder. “Because you came back. Because you dropped me off after the party at the creek, looked me in the eyes, promised you’d be back, and then you came. Life can be that simple. If you let it.”
He scowled at me, his gaze going to the drive. “I’d throttle you if I could,” he groused. “Mams is about to climb out of her car, and I’m too busy wondering about things I shouldn’t be wondering about when my grandmother is present.”
“The prom?” I asked.
He threw me a look, and I chuckled.
“I’m losing my mind,” he mumbled.
“Better than your heart, right?” I asked.
Rolling the sleeves up on his work shirt, he glanced at me. “Yeah … maybe.”
The pause in his words said it all. The pause made all the difference. The pause gave my shoes wings.
Chapter 10
“You’ve got a right nice place here, Gregor. It’s a shame you’ve let it rot into this bag o’ bones,” Mams groused as she exited my uncle’s office.
Heathcliff and I stood waiting in the foyer¸ the painting temporarily trumped by curiosity.
Gregor laughed, his spectacled gaze flicking to mine. “Guess with just the two of us here, we didn’t need much.”
Mams glanced up, her aged face lifting toward the light. Her lined skin had a decidedly yellow hue to it. Her steps were slow, but she didn’t falter.
Her sharp gaze passed between Heathcliff and me before settling on her grandson. “There a reason you still hangin’ around here, boy?”
Heathcliff’s hands went to his blue jean pockets. “I thought maybe I’d follow you home.”
“Oh, I know that tone.” She laughed. “You’re upset with me for gallivantin’ around town in my car. Not supposed to drive, the doctors say.” She wagged her finger at him. “I’ve got a little bit more time left in me, Max my boy.”
Heathcliff’s brows rose. “I think I’ll follow just the same.”
Mams approached us, Gregor on her heels, her short stature making her more intimidating rather than less. “It’s too pretty a day to leave just yet.” She glanced over her shoulder at Gregor. “Got some sweet iced tea in this place? Or have you turned into a barbarian?”
He chuckled and nodded at me. “Hawthorne’s the brilliant one in the kitchen. I just live here.”
Mams’ gaze passed to me.
“There’s some in the fridge,” I replied, ducking my head.
“Well, what are you waitin’ for?” She waved her hand. “Go and fetch it, girl. Bring it outside. A little January chill and sunshine ain’t never hurt anyone.”
She led the way to the door, the guys following, Heathcliff’s sympathetic gaze finding mine over his shoulder. Mams had a domineering kind of personality no one argued with.
My lips formed a smile, a small laugh escaping me. Truth be told, I admired the way she waltzed into an area, commanded it, and made it hers.
Rushing into the kitchen, I collected four glasses of sweet tea and ice on a tray before making my way into the yard. A makeshift picnic area had been cleared on the lawn, an old mildewed chair from the porch pulled out into the sun for Mams. She perched on it, her back ramrod straight, her gaze on my uncle where he lounged against a tree in the shade.
“Sun’s good for you in short stretches, you know,” Mams admonished.
My uncle nodded at her. “That it is, Mams. That it is.”
Heathcliff met me halfway, his hands accepting the tray of tea before offering glasses to Mams and my uncle. I sat on the grass, and he handed me a glass before taking the final one. Setting the tray on the ground, he spread out next to me, his long legs commanding the space.
It was strange sitting there with Heathcliff at my side, his grandmother above us, my uncle across from us. Two young people sipping tea with their elders like a setting from an old antebellum novel. Ice clinked against glasses beaded with condensation. The old-fashioned scene, however, was nothing compared to Mams. It would have been obvious even to the most absentminded person that she had an agenda.
Her eyes fell to her grandson before swinging to me. “I don’t mind admittin’ I was more than a little shocked when Max brought home the daughter of Jack and Meg Macy. Like a ghost from the past, you are.”
“Mams!” Heathcliff hissed.
My uncle chuckled. “It won’t do any good, son. I’ve known your Mams a long time, and when she’s got something to say, it’s best to let her get it out.”
Mams cleared her throat, throwing a look at Gregor before turning back to me. “My grandson’s a wanderer. I’ve known it since the day he ran off into the woods when he was a child. His parents had to call the police to sweep the trees and ponds. He’s like a warm breeze in spring, the kind that promises warmth and then leaves you empty.”
“Mams—” Heathcliff began, his voice low.
She cast him a look. “Don’t be shushin’ me, Max Vincent. I didn’t say I loved you any less, boy. I’m just pointin’ out that some things can’t be pinned down. Not hereabouts anyhow.”
“Look,” Heathcliff said, starting to rise, “I don’t know why you’re here or what this is—”
“I’ve always liked the wind,” I interjected. “There’s this thing about warm spring breezes. They may vanish to be replaced by the heat of summer and the cold months that follow, but they return, and when they do, their simple, brief touches are enough. They don’t make promises. They simply change you.”
Heathcliff froze, his startled gaze flying to mine. My eyes were locked on Mams’, my gray gaze captured by her piercing hazel one. Heathcliff had gotten his eyes from his grandmother.
She blinked. “I see so much more of your uncle in you than I ever will your parents, girl. Take comfort in that.” She glanced at Heathcliff. “You follow a girl home, start disappearin’ and takin’ stuff from the store to help fix up the house she lives in, and expect no one to interfere? Boy, you’d best be prepared. I’m just the referee. Be glad I put enough cash in the store to replace the stuff you snuck out.”
Heathcliff lowered himself back to the ground, his lips parting before closing again. Plucking a blade of dry, brittle grass, he fiddled with it.
“There’s rough times comin’,” Mams added. “For both of you. Maybe I seem like a meddlin’ old fool for gettin’ involved in somethin’ that ain’t none of my business, but I happen to care about both of you in different ways.” She looked at Gregor. “You turn eighteen in a few months, Hawthorne. School will be endin’, and there will be decisions to make. I’ve had some discussions with your uncle over the years, and I’ve put back money in a fund to help pay for an international culinary internship once you finish college should you choose to do it. Your uncle tells me you have a thing for cookin’.”
My pulse began to beat wildly, my eyes widening. Heathcliff leaned forward, an expression of astonishment crossing his features. My uncle simply smiled.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered.
Mams’ knowing gaze searched mine. “Your mother’s mom, your grandmother, was my best friend. It never sat well with me that Gayle renounced Meg, her only daughter, for being pregnant. When your grandparents refused to acknowledge your existence … let’s just say there were a lot o’ angry words between us. But I ain’t doin’ this for you. I’m doin’ this for your uncle. He’s garnered a lot o’ respect from the older set in this town over the years for pickin’ up his brother’s responsibilities. There’s more than just my money in that fund, girl. I’m just the one to head it.”
My heart suddenly felt like a water balloon with too much water. Squeeze too hard, and it would explode.
Uncle Gregor sat up. “Sometimes it takes a village.”
My gaze passed between them, my thoughts racing to moments I’d always worked to block from my memory. Town visits
with people whispering behind my back. It reminded me of Kenny Parker and his wife in the sideview mirror after Heathcliff helped unload lumber, their eyes trailing his disappearing truck. The way Kenny’s arm had snaked around his wife, his gaze full of compassion.
It hit me then why Mams had wanted Heathcliff to leave when she’d seen us in the hall. This conversation hadn’t been meant for him.
Shame reddened my face. “I’m a town project.”
Mams snorted. “You’ve proven yourself smart up to this point, girl. Don’t go gettin’ daft on me now. You ain’t no more a project than the rest o’ us. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands over the years. Truth be told, I’ve got a fund for half the younguns in this town. Seemed a right good thing to do. There ain’t a way to save the world all at once, but there’s a way to change lives.”
Heathcliff started to rise again, then sat, his stunned gaze on his grandmother’s face. “I didn’t know.”
She laughed. “Course you didn’t. Your daddy would have put me away for senility. You got your good heart from me, boy. Don’t you forget it. I ain’t selfish, but I admit to wantin’ a little pat on the back from my work before I die.” She winked. “You’ve got a fund, too, Max. Enough to explore that wanderin’ heart of yours. Come back if you want or don’t. It makes no nevermind to me. I always thought it a right shame the men in our family thought it necessary to tie down every capable child to the business. There’s plenty of Vincents here for that.”
Heathcliff stared at his grandmother.
My head spun, my gaze falling to my uncle. He was watching me, his head nodding. I’d been wrong about so many things over the years. All the whispers I’d thought had been about me and my parents … some of them had been, I’m sure, but my uncle hadn’t remained in this town because it was where our home was. He’d remained here because it was full of big hearts—not always open minds, that took some work—but there were a lot of open hearts. He was right. Sometimes it took a village.
“I’m feeling a mite tired,” Mams said abruptly.
Standing, Heathcliff rushed to her side. “Why don’t I drive you back?” he asked. “I can walk here tomorrow and take the truck home then.”
It was a testament to how fatigued Mams actually was that she submitted to him so easily. With a quick glance in my direction, Heathcliff left, his arm supporting his grandmother as they moved to her spotless black Buick.
The car doors slammed, the driver’s side window rolling down.
“I’ll be back,” Heathcliff called.
Tires crunched on gravel.
My gaze swept to my uncle to discover he’d moved to the grass, lying with his back against the ground the same way he’d been laying when I’d returned home from school days back.
I joined him, my head falling next to his, my eyes on the sky. Above us, white fluffy clouds meandered across a bright blue expanse before disappearing behind tree limbs.
“What are we looking for?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Uncle Gregor answered. “We’re just watching.”
The world was suddenly upside down. I could feel the grass beneath me, but I was walking on blue earth, my mind wandering with the clouds. “Why does she do that?” I asked.
He knew what I was asking, and he exhaled. “She needed to feel like she was doing something for others. Some people thrive off of that. They see life differently than the rest of us. The euphoria they get from seeing someone happy or better off because of something they did is hard to come down from. They need to keep feeling that high. We all need something, you know. Mams has always been that way. She started her first fund in a mason jar over thirty years ago to help a boy injured in a car accident. Since then, she’s led fundraisers and opened dozens of accounts to help support many local families. Most of it has been done anonymously.” He lifted his hand toward the sky. “See that?”
My gaze followed his fingers to a group of buzzards flying in the distance.
“Nasty creatures, many say,” he murmured. “Those are Turkey Buzzards. Mostly associated with death and disease, they aren’t looked upon kindly. However, there’s an old Native American legend, a Lenape one that tells how the Turkey Buzzard saved the world. How it pushed away the encroaching sun to protect the Earth from burning, and in so doing, went from being a beautiful bird to having its awful, modern appearance. No animal wanted anything to do with it again, but it didn’t matter. The buzzard had saved the world. He didn’t need the attention.” His hands formed a goal post shape to frame the flying buzzards. “Everyone has their place in the world. Sometimes that place is full of people and laughter and noise. Other times, it’s found in silence, in being different.”
I stared at the birds. “I guess that would make Mams the town saint, huh?”
Gregor chuckled. “Saint Mams sounds about right.”
Heathcliff’s words in the truck the night before struck me, and I let my head fall to the side. “Why do you call me Hawthorne?” I asked. “Do I remind you that much of The Scarlett Letter?
Uncle Gregor’s astonished gaze met mine. “Is that what you think?” I nodded, and his gaze softened. “You’re not named after a book. You’re named after the Hawthorn tree.”
Startled, I gasped, “A tree?”
He smiled. “The Hawthorn tree is cloaked in legend. Some say it brings evil powers into the home. Some say it’s a gateway to the Otherworld. Some use it to invite spirits in while others use it to keep them out. Still more say that it protects from storms. My favorite is the one that says it brings clarity, patience, and stillness.” He reached for me, his hand finding mine. “You brought those things to my life. You brought clarity and patience, and because of that, I called you Hawthorne.”
My gaze returned to the sky. “The Hawthorn tree,” I whispered. “I like that.” A smile overtook my features. “You know something, Uncle?”
“Hmm …”
“We don’t need forever. You’ve already given me that.”
My words hung between us. I didn’t look at Gregor because I was afraid I’d see the thing I feared most from him; tears. We remained on the ground, our gazes on the sky until the blue began to change, overtaken by pink and purple hues, the clouds graying. The temperatures dropped, the chill too much for my uncle, and he stood carefully. Shooting me a gentle smile, he walked to the house. Sitting up, I gathered the glasses from earlier and followed him in.
Uncle Gregor stacked wood in the living room fireplace while I branched off into the kitchen to fix supper. We ate together in companionable silence, ending the night with a quick game of checkers before heading to bed.
Then I did something I hadn’t done since I was a child. Once my Uncle Gregor was asleep, I climbed into bed with him, lying on my side on the corner of his mattress, my gaze on the wall. This is how I wanted to remember him, the father who’d protected me during bad weather and slayed the demons that haunted my nightmares. The man who’d listened to me cry and patiently decoded my dreams.
His breathing was deep, and I listened to it, the sound lulling me to sleep.
A few hours later, I woke cold and shivering. Climbing quietly from the bed, I snuck out of the room and up the stairs, my bare feet silent on the carpet. My bedroom door creaked as I opened it, my hands grabbing automatically for the cocoa-colored afghan that sat at the end of my bed. Pulling it around my shoulders, I stumbled across the floor to my window seat, my gaze going to the silver-bathed yard beyond.
Heathcliff’s pickup was visible from my perch. It looked black in the dim light, the decay and rust hidden by the night. The dark transformed it, turning it into something beautiful and different.
Beyond the truck, a shadow moved, and I squinted. Cats and raccoons were common visitors at night, but this shadow was longer and broader.
It moved again, and I stood, my knees on the window seat, my eyes wide. The security post in the yard barely threw off any light, but it was bright enough for me to make out the shape of a man.
People didn�
��t steal things in my small town. It just wasn’t done. At least not at my uncle’s plantation, but there was a first time for everything.
Heart pounding, I pulled the afghan tighter around me, my feet rushing for the stairs. At the bottom, I sped to the front door, my hand finding the knob just as it turned. Soundlessly, I backed away, my eyes wide, my mouth parting as the door swung inward.
A face appeared, a startled gasp whooshing from the intruder. “Hawthorne?”
I yelped. “Heathcliff?”
“Shh,” he hissed, his hand covering my mouth as he pulled the door shut behind him.
I stared. He was still dressed in the same clothes, his shirt from earlier wrinkled and streaked with dirt from the yard. His hair was mussed, dark circles marring his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
His gaze met mine, and I saw in his eyes what often shone from mine; grief. He’d spent the afternoon with his Mams, with a woman who hadn’t raised him the same way Gregor had raised me, but who played a major part in his life anyhow.
“I keep remembering what you said this afternoon,” he responded.
I stepped closer. “About making love?”
He exhaled. “No … I mean, yes, but not that exactly.”
“What?”
His gaze searched mine. “The part where you said you needed me.” He stepped forward, our feet meeting in the entryway, foot against foot.
Glancing down at my bare toes and his tennis shoe, I had a déjà vu moment to the first time our feet touched in English class, to the first time I’d wondered about the boy next to me, the one who reminded me of brooding, gothic romance novels.
“Yeah,” I breathed.
He leaned close, his breath feathering the top of my head. “I need you now.”
It’s kind of funny how moments collide. From the first time our feet met in the aisle between our desks to this moment, to our ever touching feet.
Taking his hand, I led him up the stairs.
Chapter 11
“Did you walk here?” I asked, my gaze trailing Heathcliff’s work shirt and jeans. He wore no jacket.