Slowly George shifted positions in the chair. He reached into his suit coat, pulled a Glock semiautomatic out of a shoulder holster, and carefully handed it over.
“Shit,” Baylor said, looking at the sleek state-of-the-art firearm. “You don’t kid around. I couldn’t get past a revolver. I guess I’m just a Buckaroo at heart.”
“I didn’t want a moment to lapse in between shots. I wanted to be able to shoot over and over and over again, no pauses.”
“Well, you chose the right weapon. No, let me amend that: you chose the right firearm.”
“You are right: I did not choose the right weapon,” George said. “No, I didn’t.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Thank you, son. I want you to know you have my thanks.”
Then Judge George Ogden took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He watched as Baylor put the Glock in the safe, reset the code, and pushed the button to slide the wooden panel in front of the safe.
A moment later, Big Shep flung the study door open and walked in, his red flannel bathrobe happily incongruous in the setting. He was carrying a drink in each hand.
“Hey, Feliz Navidad. What yall doing back here, talking law?”
George wiped his eyes.
“You okay, George?” Shep asked.
“Fine. Just got something in my eye.”
Shep took a sip from his drink and glanced quickly at Baylor, who met his father’s gaze head-on.
“What you got is love in your eye,” Shep said.
He handed George a crystal glass of Glenlivet neat and said, “Here. Some of your Scotch. Don’t know how you stand the stuff.”
“Thank you,” George said. The two men locked eyes. They had never been close; they could not have been more different. But because of their wives, they had developed a kind of tolerance for each other.
George accepted the glass. Shep saw how badly George’s hands were shaking. In an uncharacteristic move, Shep stepped over to George and lightly put his hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“It’s Christmas, man. We all get shit in our eyes. I used to fight it. Now I just go head-on and let it get to me. Doctor says it’s better for my heart. Think about that.”
For one fleeting moment, George Ogden put his hand over Shep’s, then lifted it.
“Thanks, Walker. I could use a sip or two.” George took a small drink of Scotch, then looked from father to son. “You got one fine son here, Shep. I hope you know that.”
Shep walked over to Baylor, who was leaning against the wall, where the safe was, watching the two old men. Shep put his arm around Baylor in that gruff Louisiana man way.
“As a matter of fact, I do know. In spite of his parents, he turned out pretty damn good.”
“Okay,” Baylor said. “This is a party. Let’s get back to it.”
“Damn well better,” Shep said. “I hate to think of what those Ya-Yas could have cooked up while we were in here.”
“They move fast, don’t they?” George said.
“Hell, George, we’ve never been able to keep up with them and never will. Knew it when we married them, didn’t we?”
George smiled. “I was dumber than you, Shep. I actually thought I would be the boss.”
Shep laughed. “Boss a Ya-Ya? Man, you were one blind SOB!”
“In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,” George quoted. “Guess that makes you King Shep.”
Shep laughed again. “George, you made a joke. You actually made a goddamn joke. I’m going to let the rest of them know it. Next thing I know you’ll be a full-blown comedian. Shame Ed Sullivan croaked. You could be on his show.”
George looked at Shep and shook his head.
“You bastard,” he said.
“Finally. Finally! I got you to cuss,” Shep said. “Wonders will never cease.”
George looked at Shep. Then he broke into a smile.
“I don’t know how I got mixed up with this gang,” George said.
“I don’t know how I did either,” Shep said. “But there’s no way out, George-o, no way I’m ready for yet, anyway.”
“Hey, old man,” Baylor said, “there is no way out, period. You think kicking the bucket lets you out of the Ya-Ya reach, you got it all wrong. This stuff goes beyond the grave, you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” George and Shep said at the exact same time.
Just as they were turning to leave the study, Lee-Lee, Rosalyn, and Caitlin burst into the room.
“Hey, yall, it’s snowing! Come on! It’s really snowing!”
Back in the living room, Baylor watched as the French doors to his backyard were flung open. Every child who could run, walk, or toddle was outside, screaming with delight. Snow was actually falling on the Louisiana earth. The adults stood on the patio, watching while the kids went crazy. All except his big brother Shep. Shep was out there, running around, excited as any eight-year-old. The sun had gone down on the land and on the bayous and on the passionflower vine Baylor had covered in case of frost. He flicked on the outdoor lights, which illuminated the snowflakes, making it all the more magical. He took a moment to look at each person there. Every adult, every single child.
“Miz Necie,” he heard his father say, “won’t you play us a pretty Christmas carol?”
“I’d be happy to, Shep,” she said. On her way to the piano, she gave her husband a kiss and squeezed his hand.
Then she sat at the baby grand and began to play “It Came upon a Midnight Clear.”
The melody of the ancient song drifted out onto the patio as the grown-ups watched their children play. Can’t believe it, Baylor thought. It’s actually sticking. It had not snowed in Louisiana for he couldn’t remember how long. He took in the sound of the kids yelling and playing and could believe in that moment that angels really were bending near the earth.
Abruptly, the portable phone just inside the patio rang. He’d left it on on purpose. He knew it would be her. After clicking it on, he said, “Hey, Big Sister.”
“Hey yourself,” Sidda said. “How yall doing? Everybody okay?”
“Sidd-o, we’re so much more than okay. It’s snowing, do you believe it?”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I am not. Necie is playing ‘It Came upon a Midnight Clear,’ and all the kids are out in the yard going wild, including that overgrown kid, our brother.”
“He didn’t hit any sliding glass doors on the way outside, did he?” Sidda asked.
“No,” Baylor laughed. “Lucked out this time. No trip to the ER.”
“So everyone is safe,” Sidda said.
“We’re safer than we’ll ever be, Sidda. The only thing we don’t have is stars. But you can’t have snow and stars at the same time. But you know what? You’re the only one I could tell this to: it feels like there are stars inside each one of us. Like some clean light has come down through our heads and rubbed our hearts spotless so light is coming out of our heads and our feet. When I look out at the kids, it’s like they are fireflies, each one of them giving off light. And when I close my eyes like I’m doing right now, for just one second, I can see a circle of light around all of us. Do I sound drunk?”
“You do sound intoxicated,” Sidda said, “like a man who knows he’s already in heaven.”
“Hah!” Baylor laughed, crying at the same time. “I am in heaven. Right here in Thornton, Louisiana. Right here with my family and the crazy Ya-Ya tribe and the one hundred and fifty wild daffodil bulbs I planted, which are cozy underneath the earth, all safe till they bloom in spring.”
“I love you, Baylor,” Sidda said. “Merry Christmas.”
“I love you, Sidd-o.”
“I wish Connor and I were there.”
“You’re here. Right here in my heart.”
When Baylor and Sidda signed off, he held the phone to him, as though he could embrace his sister long-distance.
Then he stepped out into the yard, gathered up a handful of snow, snuck up behind his brother, and put i
t down the back of his jacket.
Shep turned around. “Are you crazy, little brother?! You know what I could do to you?”
“Yeah,” Baylor said. “I’m crazy. What you gonna do about it?”
Shep shook the snow out from under his clothes, then turned to his little brother and wrapped him in a huge bear hug.
From the patio, they could hear their mother’s voice saying, “Hug him! Kiss him! Hug him! Kiss him! The Baby Jesus just loves hugs and kisses!”
It came to pass in December 1994, in Thornton, Louisiana, that the tribe of Ya-Yas and those they had begot felt a star shining inside them. Those who had feared for the safety of their children and their grandchildren, for the safety of their own souls and bodies, felt perfectly safe, held in the arms of love, divine love that knows no bounds, and human love with all its flaws. In Baylor’s garden, which was asleep for the winter, new life sprang forth, and a gathering of fragile creatures knew without a doubt they were a flock being watched over by night.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt gratitude to:
Thomas Schworer, Jr., my co-creator in love and work.
Kim Witherspoon, my agent, whose deep wisdom, compassion, and intelligence has guided me through countless storms.
Neil Rabitoy and Barbara Connor, who helped me cross many thresholds.
Meaghan Dowling, my first-class editor and champion at HarperCollins.
Mary Helen Clarke, whose editorial eye with part of the book was of much assistance.
Wayne Richardson-Harp, Louisiana raconteur and the best friend a Southern writer could have.
Susan Ronn, my own best Ya-Ya, whose friendship is constant and whose astute reading of the manuscript was a great gift.
And to these essential ones:
My agent’s fabulous associate, David Forrer, and the wonderful staff at Witherspoon Associates; Brenda Hafer, webmistress extraordinaire, and the Ya-Ya.com Sisterhood; T.O. Wells, Tom Sr. and Barbara Schworer, Wendy Best, Donna Lambdin, T. Gibson, Zelda Long and the memory of Cary Long, Toni Carmichael and Gary Larson, Kitty, Carl, (and Pierre) of Le Club Riff-Raff, Peg Maas, Corrie Moore, Leta Rose Scott, Mark Lawless, George Sheanshang, Miranda Ottewell, Rome Quezada, Mary Stien, the Rev. Lauren Artress and Veriditas, who introduced me to the power of walking the Labyrinth; Sue Bucy and her tribe of prayerful players, Bruce Hornbuckle, Steve Coenen, Ann New, Darrell Jaimeson, Nancy Chambers Richards, Sally and John Renn, Marta and David Maxwell, Nans and Bob Metts, D. Buscher, Bernard Fouke, Marian Wood, Ken Boynton, Julie and Bard Richmond, Jon Kabat-Zinn, whose work inspires me daily; Pat Conroy, Fannie Flagg, John O’Donohue, and Barbara Kingsolver, big-hearted writers who gave me counsel and kindness; Willie Mae Lowe and family; the mama and baby whales in the Maui waters, and the herons near my home on Puget Sound.
And, always: The Holy Lady and her band of tireless angels.
About the Author
A native of Louisiana, REBECCA WELLS is an actor and playwright in addition to being the author of the phenomenal bestsellers Little Altars Everywhere and Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sister-hood, which have been translated into twenty-three languages worldwide. She has received numerous awards, including the Western States Book Award for Little Altars Everywhere and the 1999 American Booksellers Book of the Year Award for Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
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Available from HarperAudio, HarperLargePrint, and as an e-book from PerfectBound
Also by Rebecca Wells
Little Altars Everywhere
Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood
Credits
Designed by Nancy B. Field
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
YA-YAS IN BLOOM. Copyright © 2005 by Rebecca Wells. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information, please write: Special Markets Department, HarperCollins Publishers Inc., 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to quote “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” words and music by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane; © 1943 (renewed 1971) Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Inc.; © 1944 (renewed 1972) EMI Feist Catalog Inc. All rights controlled by EMI Feist Catalog Inc. and Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. All rights reserved. Used by permission. Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. Miami, Florida 33014.
ePub edition March 2005 ISBN 9780061758843
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wells, Rebecca
Ya-Yas in bloom: a novel / Rebecca Wells.—1st ed.
p. cm.
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Ya-Yas in Bloom: A Novel Page 27