Persuasion, Captain Wentworth and Cracklin' Cornbread

by Mary Jane Hathaway

  “No, no,” Paulette said. “I’m not hiring a caterer. I’m cooking dinner.” She beamed at them.

  Lucy frowned. “Do you know how to cook?”

  “Of course I do.” Her sister was offended by the idea that she had somehow skipped that most important skill. “I cook for my friends all the time. Plus, I’m inviting someone very special. He just moved here from Memphis but his family has roots in Tupelo.”

  “What’s his name?” Aunt Olympia’s eyes were bright with interest.

  “Marcus Gibbs. His grandpa is in Daddy’s club.”

  “I know them. Fine people. La Ronda is on the cotillion board this year and has a real fine sense of floral arrangements,” Olympia said.

  “He’s so handsome. I want to make a good impression.” Paulette paused, as if remembering this was supposed to be for Regan’s romantic prospects, not her own. “And this dinner will show Jem how Southern food should taste.”

  Lucy was thoroughly confused now. “But Jem is from Tupelo. He knows exactly how Southern food tastes. I’m sure he’s had a lifetime of fried chicken and gumbo.”

  “No, I mean real Southern food.” Paulette tugged her phone out of her purse and tapped the screen. “I went to Xander’s for dinner and they served petit crolines with duck liver and a minted lamb purse that was to die for.”

  Aunt Olympia reached for the phone and stared at the picture. “That might be too hard for you, Paulette. What about a nice casserole?”

  “I’m not cooking shepherd’s pie for my friends. How hard can those things be?” Paulette leaned over. “The petit crolines are just puff pastry sheets with duck liver inside, and then the lamb purse is just, you know, a bit of lamb in some dough.” She paused. “They’re sorta the same thing, actually. Maybe I should throw in a side dish.”

  “A fresh salad would be nice,” Lucy said. “Mrs. Hardy said the heirloom tomatoes are ripe. You could slice them and arrange them in layers on one of the platters with fresh basil and—”

  “That is so country.” Her sister rolled her eyes. “I promised Regan that we should show Jem how real Southerners eat.”

  “I’m sure he’s perfectly aware of how real Southerners eat because he is one, Paulette.”

  “But he’s been in Boston for almost ten years and only came home once. He said his mama flew up to see him at Christmas, but otherwise he just lived up North.”

  Lucy wondered if he’d loved Boston so much he didn’t want to leave, or if he’d hated Tupelo so much he’d never wanted to come back.

  “When he’s done here, I hope he stays in the South. Maybe Atlanta or Memphis.”

  So he wasn’t staying in Tupelo. Jem would never want to live in his hometown after he was done with the Rural Physicians Program. She had suspected that, but for some reason hearing the words still made her breath catch in her throat.

  “Are you having the dinner this weekend?” Aunt Olympia asked. “You’d better ask your daddy what time is best.”

  Paulette lifted her chin. “I mentioned it to him and he said he’d rather eat at the club. He doesn’t seem to think my cooking skills are up to par.”

  Lucy thought it was more likely that Willy Crawford didn’t want to break bread with the new doctor of the Free Clinic. Some prestige came with a medical degree, but not enough to get over her daddy’s prejudice about a poor white boy from the bad part of town.

  She stood up and collected the glasses. Setting them carefully in the sink, Lucy fought back a deep sigh. The more things changed, the more they stayed same, so the saying went. Jem was being accepted by the better families of Tupelo, but he would never really be forgiven for coming from a trailer park. Of course she figured none of this meant much to Jem. He hadn’t cared what people thought of him then, and he didn’t seem to care much now.

  Rinsing the glasses under the cool water, a flash of memory made her movements slow, then still completely. She stood, staring out the kitchen window, the water running over her fingers. It had been a humid, sweltering night ten years ago, but she couldn’t seem to get close enough to Jem. They stood under the trees near his home, listening to the crickets. He’d held her tight, wrapping his arms around her, and when he talked, she felt his words like a rumble against her ear. He’d whispered into her hair, so quietly she strained to hear. He said it didn’t matter what anyone thought, that as long as she loved him, nothing else was important.

  Lucy saw the grass of her own backyard blur into nothingness. She made herself rinse each glass and set it on the drainboard. No one else had ever asked her to be brave, to be strong, to speak out. No, he hadn’t asked her; he had expected it. He assumed she would stand beside him when he needed her and tell the world she believed in him, in them.

  Turning off the water, Lucy straightened her shoulders. She’d been convinced to do something wrong, but the guilt was hers, and hers alone. She needed to move on from the past, and the best way would be to apologize to Jem. She wasn’t sure how or when, but it had to be done.

  As soon as she’d made the decision, Lucy felt a strange mix of panic and resolve. Whatever happened next, at least she wasn’t just sitting back and dreading the next time they bumped into each other. She would come up with a plan, and a speech, and pray for the best. Lord willing, he might just accept her apology and she would be able to get a good night’s sleep for the first time since Jem Chevy had come back to town.

  “I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men.”

  —CAPTAIN HARVILLE

  Chapter Nine

  Jem sat in his car and stared up at Crawford House. It seemed a mythical place, the long white columns glowing peach, each window reflecting the blazing sunrise. No one would be awake yet, and that was just the way he wanted it.

  Yesterday afternoon he had left as early as possible. The day’s patients were the usual mix of old folk under the weather and little kids battling colds, but he had been off-kilter through each appointment. Lucy’s eyes haunted him every moment of that day, and he’d left without transcribing his notes. He’d spent the evening walking, thinking over their conversation, getting a grip on his emotions.

  Now, in the early-morning sunlight, Jem admitted he was no closer to a peaceful resolution to the problem. He would be here, in her house. She would be here, in his clinic. They would meet, face-to-face, and there was nothing he could do to prepare himself for what he felt.

  Sliding out from behind the wheel, he closed the door of his car as softly as possible. Since it was so early in the morning, Lucy was less likely to be walking through the clinic waiting room. As a bonus, he might be able to avoid Olympia, too.

  The gentle scent of tea roses followed him up the flagstone path, and Jem glanced over the landscape. Crawford House had always been a beautiful spot, even when tinged with pain and regret. Thick grass covered the sloping lawn, bordered at the far end by tall hedges and edged to the right by the entrance to the vegetable garden. Lucy’s mama had loved that garden, planting pole beans, okra and corn. Jem could see the tall rows of early corn and the peach trees behind them, and he wondered who tended the garden now. A truck passed by on the main road and the sound echoed through the quiet morning. The city had grown while he’d been in Boston, but Crawford House maintained a certain isolation in the middle of it all.

  He climbed the steps of the porch, keeping his footsteps light. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keys, feeling like a thief. Jem gritted his teeth. He had a right to be here, but there was something about sneaking into the clinic while the entire house was asleep that was worse than walking in during the day.

  Lucy’s room was directly above the porch, or at least it had been ten years ago. Her mama had wanted her to take a room at the front of the house, but Lucy loved the view tow
ard the ancient elm and the low hills beyond. Jem thought of her, upstairs asleep, and felt his chest constrict. This was worse than meeting her in the middle of the waiting room. He felt as if he were trespassing on her privacy. He had never belonged here and never would, no matter what time of day it was.

  “Well, looky here.”

  Jem whirled around at the sound, scrambling for an excuse. “I didn’t mean to . . .” His words faded away at the sight of the old man in front of him. Zeke stood at the bottom of the steps, holding a hammer and grinning. His hair was completely white now, but his body still looked strong and wiry.

  Jem trotted down the steps and held out a hand. “Zeke, it’s good to see you again.”

  Zeke shook his hand solemnly, looking up into his face and letting out a chuckle. “I always knew you’d come back here.”

  For a moment, Jem thought he meant back to Crawford House. “Yes, sir. I’m a Tupelo boy through and through.”

  “Miss Lucy missed you for a long while after you left,” Zeke said as naturally as mentioning the weather.

  Jem searched for something to say, but everything that occurred to him was colored with regret. He glanced over Zeke’s head and motioned to the garden. “Your corn crop’s looking real fine.”

  Zeke nodded. “It’s been a good spring, lotsa rain. Hard to keep up the weedin’, but it be good soil. Not too much clay.”

  “You’re headed to the garden?”

  Zeke held up the hammer. “Miss Lucy wanted me to put in a coop. Just gettin’ set up.”

  “A coop?”

  “For chickens. Miss Lucy thought it might be nice to have fresh eggs available.”

  Jem thought of Olympia’s comment about the clinic bringing in yard birds to scratch at the grass and grinned. “Can I help you at all?”

  “Naw, son. You best not.” He looked him up and down, noting his pressed khakis and button-up shirt. “You go on ahead inside.”

  Jem was already stowing his keys back in his pocket and rolling up his sleeves. “I have hours before the clinic opens. Where are you building it?”

  “In the corner, between the butter beans and the pear tomatoes,” Zeke answered, as if Jem were familiar with the layout of the garden.

  “Is your wood already there?”

  “It’s in my truck.” Zeke jerked his head. “Come on, then. I don’t blame you for wantin’ to be outside. I couldn’t stand an office job myself.”

  “It’s not so bad.” They walked back down the path toward the parking area. “I’m moving most of the time. The paperwork is a pain though.”

  “You don’t have no secretary for that?” Zeke asked.

  “Not really. Leticia handles the appointments. I still have forms to fill out.” Zeke’s teal-blue Ford was parked at the corner of the drive. “Why don’t you move the truck up a little closer?”

  “This is close enough. Miss Olympia don’t like my truck in the drive so I usually park down by the cedar trees.” Zeke winked. “I plan on movin’ it before she get here.” He took hold of a length of two-by-four and pulled it clear of the truck bed.

  “Let me carry these.” Jem took the board from Zeke’s hands.

  “You and Miss Lucy are just alike, tryin’ to make things easy on old Zeke. But I’m not dead yet.” Zeke took another board from the truck and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

  They headed back to the garden, side by side.

  “Are they already cut to the right length?”

  “My boy cut ’em for me last night. He has a real nice table saw. Clean and straight, he cut all this in a half hour. Makes me think of my daddy, built his own house, cuttin’ all his wood by hand.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Oh, shoot, knee-high to a grasshopper. I remember the smell of the fresh-cut wood, and the sound of the old handsaw. He wore out too many to count. Broke the teeth off ’em and had to buy another. But they were right costly, so my mama went to work as a maid for Colonel Mason.” Zeke passed through the garden gate and trudged toward the far end. A small clearing had been mapped out with sticks planted in the dirt at the four corners.

  “Was she happy there?” Jem dropped his wood to the ground.

  He shrugged. “She never said much about it. I know she missed us, but we saw her on Sundays.” He took out a red hanky and wiped his forehead. “When you’re dirt-poor, you make hard choices.”

  He’d been dirt-poor, but he’d never had to make those kinds of choices. Not personally. They started back toward the truck. “Sounds like you had a good family. My mama was the same way. When I was in school, she took two jobs, one during the night and one during the day, just so I could have jeans that didn’t have holes in them.”

  “A good mama is better than a sack o’ gold.” Zeke pulled a plank from the truck and swung it up onto his shoulder.

  Jem followed, thinking over those words, feeling the heat of the early morning on his skin. He had a lot to be thankful for, really. He could have been surrounded by a family that stood in his way. He had a flash of Lucy’s aunt Olympia endlessly listing her complaints, Paulette’s permanent sneer, and Janessa’s self-centered chatter. Lucy seemed to think it was her responsibility to keep everyone happy, no matter the cost to herself.

  As they passed the rose garden, a blur of brown and gray darted between his legs. Jem skipped a step and jerked to a stop, narrowly missing planting a shoe on the tiny kitten. “Hey, buddy. You were supposed to go home.”

  Zeke turned his head. “He was here all weekend. I didn’t have the heart to let him starve so I snuck him a little chitlins. I guess he’s a permanent resident now.”

  Dropping the wood next to the growing pile of lumber, Jem had to smile. Crawford House needed a little bit of life. The benches near the garden looked neglected, and the flowers were thin around the border near the front. It was a stately place, but it was missing a certain something, a bit of joy.

  Humming a few bars, Zeke started to sing, “I saw Texas go in with a smile, but I tell you what it is, she made the Yankees bile. Oh, it don’t make a nif-a-stifference to neither you nor I, Texas is the devil, boys. Root, hog, or die.”

  Jem snorted. “I never knew you hated Texans.”

  “Don’t got nothin’ against ’em.” Zeke grinned. “I was thinking of the ‘root, hog, or die.’ That kitten can’t live on air. He’ll be looking for food and poor little thing won’t stand a chance if he runs toward all that traffic they got headin’ through here now.”

  “True.” The kitten had followed them to the garden and was sniffing through the tomato plants. The sun was barely higher than the trees, but the heat was growing.

  Zeke turned back toward the truck, his thin voice rising once again. “A hundred months have passed, Lorena, since last I held that hand in mine, and felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena, though mine beat faster far than thine.”

  Jem’s heart dropped into his shoes. He knew the words to that mournful Civil War tune, knew it better than any pop song on the radio. Jem walked behind Zeke, watching the old man’s boots ahead of him on the path and trying to block out the words.

  “We loved each other then, Lorena, far more than we ever dared to tell; and what we might have been, Lorena, had but our loving prospered well.” Zeke tugged a plank from the bed of the truck and paused, letting his voice carry up into the morning air.

  He turned and headed toward the garden. Jem slowly pulled the last two planks toward him, hoping to put space between him and that song. Lost love, broken hearts and homesick men far from their families.

  Zeke’s voice was clear as the morning sky above. “’ Twas not thy woman’s heart that spoke; thy heart was always true to me: a duty, stern and pressing, broke the tie which linked my soul with thee.”

  Letting out a sigh, Jem gave in and hummed along. Except that Lucy hadn’t stayed true, as far as he knew. She had just gone on
with her life, the same as he had. He wondered, not for the first time, what her boyfriends had been like. Educated, wealthy, traditional and handsome. He hadn’t seen anyone around Crawford House, but that didn’t mean a boyfriend wasn’t on the scene. He could pop up any moment, putting his hand on the back of her neck, the way some men did when they felt they had the right of possession. The idea made him feel slightly ill.

  Their voices blended together, one wavering with age, one robust. They trooped through the garden gate. “There is a Future! Oh, thank God, of life this is so small a part! ’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, but there, up there, ’tis heart to heart.” Jem sang the last words heartily, looking up at the last note.

  That’s when he noticed that Lucy stood in the garden, arms wrapped around her middle, her expression a mixture of things so complicated he couldn’t decipher it. Her simple outfit of a pink, button-up shirt and black slacks should have been plain, but on her, nothing was plain. Even though she looked tired and solemn, she was as stunning now as she had been at the Strouds’ party.

  She held his gaze as he came toward her, and the words of the song seemed to echo around them. ’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod, but there, up there, ’tis heart to heart. If only things had been different. If only they weren’t doomed to awkward moments and regret, with only heaven above as a promise.

  “Mornin’, Miss Lucy,” Zeke said. Dropping his plank to the ground, he waved Jem closer. “Come lay it down over here. I’ll build the frame in a bit. Gonna be a nice big coop, off the ground, with a little ramp in the front for all them hens to run up and down.”

  Jem maneuvered the lengths of pine into place and let them fall onto the stack. He brushed off his dress shirt, suddenly aware of the sweat on his face. He thought of walking away, knew he should give some excuse and leave the garden, but he couldn’t quite make his feet move where he wanted them.

  “I heard you singing.” She was looking at Jem but was speaking to both of them.