Sweetgrass

by Monroe, Mary Alice

  That caught her off guard and her face showed it. She quickly recouped, delivering a no-nonsense glare at his smirk. “Don’t you just wish. What woman is gonna hitch her star to someone as dog-ugly as you? Come back inside in about half an hour. I’m fixing to roll out some biscuits and fry up some bacon. And coffee,” she added, her body yearning for her beloved brew.

  Morgan smiled as he watched Nona climb the stairs to the house. It wasn’t often he could render Nona speechless.

  Hours later, Morgan was applying the last coat of Charleston Green paint to the kitchen house front door when he heard a car pulling up to the house followed by Blackjack’s gruff bark of alarm. The dog’s arthritic legs strained under the effort of rising. Feeling like an old dog himself after a long morning of painting, he slowly straightened with one hand anchoring the small of his back. His gaze followed Blackjack’s rush toward the sound of crunching gravel.

  From around the house, a tall, lean woman dressed in bleached jean lowriders and a cuffed white shirt walked toward him with a straight-backed, confident, hip-swaying gait. Her oversize, scuffed brown leather purse banged against her slender hip in steady, seductive rhythm. Morgan watched her, squinting in the noonday sun. Against the glare, her long, wildly curly hair seemed an aura around her head that captured and held the golden light.

  “Hi there,” she called out as she approached. Her voice lilted at the end, like a song.

  “Hello,” he responded with more reserve as she breezily sauntered near. “Can I help you?”

  Up close, the force of her personality dominated his first impression. The young woman vibrated with life. It sparked out from her bright blue eyes and shone from her very white, no-holds-barred smile.

  “I hope so,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. “I’m looking for the Blakely residence.”

  “Well, you found it.”

  “Good! The directions said to turn in at the Sweetgrass gate and you’re the only house I’ve found.” She put out her hand. “I’m Kristina Hays. The agency sent me.”

  He blinked again. “You’re the new aide?”

  “Yes,” she said, her smile faltering. “I hope you’re expecting me.”

  Morgan quickly recouped. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m Morgan. Morgan Blakely.”

  She took his hand and he was impressed by the strength of her handshake.

  “You seem surprised to see me,” she said.

  “It’s just…well, you’re different than I expected.” He didn’t quite know what he expected, exactly. “Younger,” he added lamely.

  “I don’t believe in age. But don’t worry, I’m old enough. And I’ve been doing this for years, though not in South Carolina. I only moved here a few months ago. From California,” she added, as though this fact alone qualified her for the job.

  Blackjack, who had been circling anxiously, finally could bear it no longer and nosed closer, boldly began sniffing her feet.

  “Hey there, big fella!” she exclaimed warmly. “Are we ignoring you? What’s your name?” She dropped her bag and bent to warmly pat his head and flop his ears.

  Rather than be suspicious of the stranger, Blackjack whined happily at her attention, rudely pawing her legs.

  “Blackjack!” Morgan called. “Back off!”

  “I don’t mind,” she replied, still stroking the black fur. “Dogs like me. Blackjack, huh? Good name.”

  He lifted his chin toward the house. “Here comes my mother now.”

  He felt a boyish pride and affection at the sight of his mother striding along the path from the main house to the kitchen house. She was simply dressed in a dark skirt, floral blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair was a snowy-white mass twisted into a bun at the back of her head. Signs of the beauty she once was added charm to the graciousness and fresh, scrubbed appeal of her open, smiling face.

  “Miss Hays? I’m Mary June Blakely. Welcome to Sweetgrass.”

  Kristina’s warmth matched his mother’s as she reached out to take her offered hand. The two women’s eyes met and measured; Morgan could feel the tacit approval in the air.

  “When does Mr. Blakely arrive home?” Kristina asked.

  “Hopefully tomorrow. Possibly the following day. We’ve been anxious for your arrival to help us smooth his transition.”

  “Homecomings are always stressful, but if we’re prepared, we’ll sail through.”

  Morgan noted that his mother’s shoulders relaxed at Kristina’s use of the word we. Although she didn’t voice it, he knew Mama June was worried what her new role would be once the aide arrived.

  “How long have you been in this line of work?” Mama June asked.

  “About eight years. I was trained originally as a therapeutic masseuse, but my dad had a stroke a few years back and I took care of him. I guess you could say I found my true calling.”

  “You did get formal training as a medical aide?” Morgan interjected with suspicion.

  She cast him a sidelong glance, clueing into his worries about her qualifications. “It’s all in here.” She dug into her large leather bag and pulled out a crinkled white envelope. “I believe the agency sent you my résumé but I like to bring my own, just in case. All my formal training is listed, as well as my credentials as a massage therapist. But believe me, my real training came from taking care of my father.”

  Mama June’s eyes softened with concern. “I’m sorry to learn your father was ill, too. Is he much improved?”

  “He died last year.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mama June responded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “My father’s stroke was quite massive,” Morgan told her. “He’s completely paralyzed on his right side and he can’t speak at all. Are you familiar with cases like this?”

  “Aphasics are my specialty,” she replied.

  “How wonderful,” Mama June replied in a rush, obviously taken with Kristina. “We’re lucky to have you, Miss Hays.”

  “Please, call me Kristina,” she said with an all-encompassing smile.

  “Morgan,” Mama June said, turning to him. “Won’t you show Kristina where she’ll be staying?” Then to Kristina, “Take a few minutes to freshen up and unpack. When you’re ready, won’t you join us for lunch? Say, twelve-thirty? You’ll meet Nona. She’s the other major link in our team.”

  He realized he was still standing there with a paintbrush in his hand. “Just give me a minute.”

  He walked back to the front of the kitchen house and dumped the brush in a plastic bag and covered the nearly empty paint can. Then he waved her over and began wiping his hand with a towel. “I’ve finished for the day. It would appear just in time, too.” He indicated the kitchen house with a jerk of his chin. The brick was sparkling white with a fresh coat of paint. Morgan had also painted the shutters the same aquamarine color that was on the shutters of the main house.

  “It’s a nice place inside. There’s lots of light. I think you’ll like it.”

  Her generous mouth slipped open. “You’re kidding, right? This place is for me?”

  “For as long as you work here, anyway.”

  “I just assumed I’d be sleeping in some spare bedroom.”

  “You can do that, if you prefer,” he said hopefully. “I can move out here.”

  “No! No, I love it!” She seemed genuinely pleased.

  Morgan was torn between disappointment that she loved the kitchen house and pleasure that his hard work fixing it up was appreciated. “Come on in. I’ll give you the cook’s tour. Mind the paint.”

  It was a solidly built, one-story brick house that had both the charm and the disadvantages of antiquity. Morgan had to duck his head as he walked beneath the door’s low lintel and led her into the small house. It was divided in two by an enormous brick fireplace. A second, smaller fireplace nestled in the northern wall, and on the southern, a small, angled greenhouse had been added. Behind the center fireplace was a second room of equal size with a third fireplace. This room was also white and spare, with only a
black iron bed and a painted pine dresser against the brick walls.

  “I haven’t gotten around to putting the rest of the furniture back in yet,” he said.

  “I like my furnishings spare.” Kristina’s eyes scanned the room and her voice almost purred. “It’s perfect.”

  The floor planks creaked as she walked around the room, her neck craning to study the dark wood crossbeams that dominated the ceiling. Her body was slim but taut, and he’d bet his last dollar she did yoga. If she liked things spare, like he did, then he knew she’d appreciate the simple charm of sunlight that filtered in through small, mullioned windows covered with crisp, fresh white lace.

  “Was this the guest house?” she asked, taking interest.

  He looked around the house dispassionately, having told the history countless times before. “Originally it was the kitchen house, which is what we still call it. Back in the 1800s when the main house was built, fire was a real threat, so kitchens were in a separate building. The servants would carry the food to and from the dining room. Sometime after the turn of the century, my grandfather added on to the main house, building a new kitchen. He added running water to this place, electricity and a septic tank.”

  “He made it a dwelling,” she said.

  “For the Bennetts, a family that’s been connected to mine for generations. They moved in and lived here for a spell, but after they had a few children, they moved out to a house of their own. The next tenants were my parents. That brings us to the fifties. Daddy modernized it some more and brought his bride in right after they were married. They lived here till my grandparents died. At that point, my parents moved into the big house and it’s been empty ever since. We kids used it as a playhouse, guests stayed in it occasionally, but as for tenants, you’re the next.”

  “I’m honored,” she quipped.

  “I put in a new fridge and microwave. And an air conditioner in your bedroom. All the comforts of home.”

  “So I gather this place has been in your family for a long time?”

  “You could say so,” he said with a slow drawl. “Oliphant Blakely came over in 1769 with a land grant in hand. This started out as an indigo plantation. A house was built later that used to stand over there,” he said, pointing out a window. Kristina moved closer to peer out. She was tall, but her head only reached the tip of his nose. He caught the scent of citrus and flowers, which was surprisingly fresh on this hot day. He reached over her shoulder to guide her line of vision.

  “Over there, next to that big old live oak tree with the swing. See it? There’s a plaque marking the spot. It was the oldest house in the parish.”

  “What happened to the original house?”

  “The same thing that happens to a lot of the old houses. Earthquakes, fire, rot. Eventually a hurricane swept the foundation away.”

  She began moving back and bumped into his arm. Their eyes met briefly and the air between them was charged. They muttered quick apologies.

  “So,” she asked, walking away from him and looking around the room, “who built the new house?”

  “Ah, that would be Beatrice. She was quite a character, our Beatrice. Oliphant’s first wife died in childbirth and Beatrice was his second wife. She wasn’t much more than eighteen when she married him and he was getting up there in age, but she bore him seven children, five of whom died before she did. After her husband died, Beatrice ran the plantation herself and took it upon herself to build the new house with an eye to future generations. She saw to every detail. That’s a lot of doing for a woman back in the days when only a man could vote.”

  “She must’ve been a remarkable woman.”

  “From all the stories, I gather she was. Ran the plantation with an iron will.” Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “But don’t take my word for it. Ask her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He chuckled, pleased with her confused reaction. “Apparently, dear grandmother Beatrice haunts the house.”

  “Really? A ghost?” she asked, her interest peaked.

  “So they say,” he said, tucking his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall. “Not that that’s such a big deal in Charleston. Almost all the old houses boast a resident ghost.”

  She seemed intensely curious. “How do you know it’s haunted?”

  “People claim to have seen her walking the halls at night, or praying by her bedroom window, or rocking on the veranda overlooking the plantation. There’ve been dozens of sightings over the years, or reports of hearing her footfall, the creaking rocker, all sorts of things. Some say she worked so hard to build the place up, the old matriarch can’t leave it. Nona won’t sleep in the house. She swears she’s seen Beatrice any number of times, as her mother did, and it creeps her out.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “No. I wish I had. It might have made a believer out of me.”

  “I take it you’re the skeptical type, then?”

  “That’s me. Doubting Thomas.” He tilted his head as though inspecting her more closely. Her blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “And I think we can assume you’re a hook-line-and-sinker type?”

  “You’ve got me pegged,” she replied with a light laugh. Their eyes met again and he could tell that she was enjoying herself, and that the attraction was mutual.

  “Now, Hamlin,” he continued, “absolutely believed Beatrice haunted the place. He used to try to make me stay up all night with him, waiting for her. But I was younger and fell asleep, got bored, whatever.” He shrugged.

  “Hamlin?”

  Morgan brought his hands from his pockets and straightened. “My elder brother. Hamlin Blakely IV.” His expression clouded. “He passed away years ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She paused, then adroitly returned to the subject of ghosts. “Well, who knows? If he saw the ghost, maybe I’ll be lucky and see her, too.”

  “You’re not afraid, then?”

  “Me? Oh, no. Not at all. In fact, I think it’s pretty cool. A haunted house…” She looked around the kitchen house and, chewing her lip, asked, “Say, this place isn’t haunted, is it?”

  “I thought you weren’t scared!” He laughed and waved a hand at her instant objections. “Sure, sure,” he teased. “Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure no one’s spotted a ghost in the kitchen house. You’re pretty safe here.”

  Her cheeks flamed prettily. “I wasn’t scared. Just curious.”

  “Right.”

  “Really!”

  “Time will tell,” he chided, liking her more. Kristina Hays had a self-possessed yet friendly demeanor which he found easy to be around. “But in the meantime, make yourself at home. When you’re ready, follow the gravel path to the house and let yourself in. You can duel with the two women who’ve taken Beatrice’s place at running this estate with iron fists. My mother and Nona. The dynamic duo. They’re both pretty determined women and both extremely protective of my father.”

  “I like them already,” she said, following him to the door, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  A few days later, all was in order for Preston’s arrival home. Mama June walked through the main floor of her house, clasping her hands tightly as she inspected every detail. Yellow light flowed from the lamps and the house smelled of floor wax, citrus polish and the abundant flowers that filled vases throughout. She felt a twinge of regret at seeing her lovely dining room converted into a makeshift hospital room. The doctors suggested it would be much easier for everyone if Preston stayed on the main floor to avoid stairs. Nan and her boys had helped move the dining room furniture into storage to make way for the hospital bed, the Hoyer lift and other medical paraphernalia.

  Scanning the room, she couldn’t help but smirk at the ornate crystal chandelier that hung directly above the rented hospital bed. It was the last hurrah of the room’s grandeur and lent the sterile hospital-like room a certain je ne sais quoi.

  All that was left was to wait. Restless, she mo
ved on to the front porch. Great shafts of bright sunshine broke through dark clouds. Movement caught her attention, and turning her head, she saw Chas and Harry goofing around on the wooden swing, killing time.

  Soon he’d be coming down that road, she thought, looking out at the avenue of oaks. She’d worked so hard to make this happen. Memories of the ambulance carrying Preston away to the hospital that terrible night sprang to mind. Her hand lowered to rest against her racing heart.

  She’d never known such terror. She had been sitting in her room, reading her Bible for solace after the harsh words exchanged with Preston, when she’d heard an odd noise from outside her window. It sounded like the muffled cry of an animal, maybe the howl of a cat or an owl. She’d closed the Bible and cocked her ear, listening intently. What followed was a loud thump and crash, and shortly afterward, Blackjack’s husky bark ringing with alarm.

  Mama June had endured more than her share of death and sorrow in her lifetime, but to find him sprawled out on the floor, his face ghostly white under the harsh porch light…

  She’d thought he was dead. She’d thought her own heart would stop at that very minute, too. But rather than panic, a strange calm came over her and she knew exactly what to do. Help had come quickly. She could still see in her mind’s eye the small red taillights of the ambulance disappearing down the dark drive and Blackjack running after it, his bark mingling with the wail of sirens.

  Her hand rose to her mouth, stilling the trembling of her lips. She shouldn’t have argued with Preston! Such things she’d said to him, right here on this very porch. Words she’d muttered only to herself over the years. What had possessed her to say them aloud? She cringed with guilt at the memory of how his face had fallen with shock and some other, painful emotion…what? Defeat? Anguish?

  “Oh, Lord, forgive me,” she prayed, closing her eyes tight. The stroke had been her fault.

  She thought a voice whispered her name in her ear. Mama June swung her head around to look out over the porch to the road, eyes searching.

  Beyond the expanse of green grass the roadbed curved round from the front of the house down the avenue of oaks. Blackjack paced, sniffing the road, then jerked his head up, ears alert. Mama June’s heart stilled. Her breath caught as the bright red hood of an ambulance broke through the green.