But this isn’t funny, not to me, anyway. The minute I heard Roy’s voice, I knew I missed him and everyone else at the motel, including Winston. I can’t get that picture out of my mind of him feeding a cat on the sneak and then complaining that the cat is still hanging around. Winston is not as tough as he wants everyone to think.
All day, I think about how what happened four months ago has changed the rest of my life. Even now while we sit around the dinner table and everyone is chattering, I think about it. Uncle Lloyd and Tristen argue over who almost caught the biggest fish. Megan is telling her mom that she’s so confused about Brad, and Corbin is talking to me about Lucky Dog. I’m barely listening. My thoughts are far away in Texas.
Aunt Teresa is serving us each a piece of coconut pie when the neighbors’ dogs go to barking. Soon we hear the crunching of the gravel outside and a knock at the door.
Everybody gets quiet, and I notice they’re all looking at me. Aunt Teresa says, “Stevie, will you get the door?” Which seems strange for her to ask me to do, but maybe she knows something I don’t. Maybe someone is delivering my ticket.
I walk across the room, open the door, and find Winston standing there.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t say anything.
Then I lean into his chest and wrap my arms around him. Winston’s arms form a ring around my body. We’re hugging, and it’s like we’re saying hello for the very first time.
Blooming
Flowering, flourishing, prospering
Chapter Forty-Seven
“WE’RE GOING TO TAKE a little detour,” Winston says an hour into our journey back to Little Esther. There’s a lot of silence between Winston and me. That’s okay. We’re not the Crazy Smiths. We’re quiet people. But we talk some too.
“I like your aunt,” Winston says. “And Lloyd seems like a good person.”
“He is.”
I think Winston is trying to figure out if something went wrong, something that would cause me to go back with him. And of course nothing did go wrong, but I’ll let Winston just wonder about that for now.
Aunt Teresa knew Winston was coming. While I packed my suitcase, she said she called Winston shortly after I told her I was going back to Little Esther. She said he didn’t say a word for a good while. Then he asked how long we’d be in Pensacola, because he wanted to come for me himself.
We’re about to cross the Florida state line. Good-bye, Florida. “What’s the detour?”
“I want to stop in New Orleans to see an old friend.”
A Cajun music station is on the radio. I can tell the song is zydeco, because that’s what Uncle Lloyd listened to at the nursery. I wouldn’t have known that two weeks ago. Just like I wouldn’t ever have guessed in a million years that Winston would drive all the way to Pensacola to get me.
A couple of hours pass. We cross the long bridge over Lake Pontchartrain and enter the New Orleans city limits.
“Did you ever play here?”
“Oh, yeah. Quite a bit. It was hard being on the road, leaving my family, but this city kind of grabs hold of your soul and won’t let go.”
I wonder if we’re going to a jazz club, but we pass the French Quarter exit sign and cross the Mississippi River. The sun is high in the sky, bouncing light off the dark water. An old steamboat with a red paddle wheel spits water, making its way along the riverbank. When we reach the other side of the bridge, we turn off the main road onto a side street. Then we pull up in front of a nursing home. Winston parks the van. “Hop out. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Winston opens the side door and pulls out a guitar case.
“You play the guitar?”
“A little.”
We pass a few older people sitting in rocking chairs on the porch and go inside. The place smells like bleach and a sour mop.
A lady behind the desk at the entrance asks, “Can I help you?” Then she smiles. “Oh, it’s you again. Here to see Jack? Room Forty-Three down the east hallway.”
Winston thanks her, and we walk down the hallway to the right. The doors are decorated with wreaths and craft projects that look like little kids made them. Some have pictures of people taped all over.
Room 43 is midway down the hall. Winston knocks.
“Come on in this place,” a gravelly voice calls out.
Winston opens the door.
“Hey, cat!” the old black guy says. He’s sitting up in bed, watching the news on TV. Pointing the remote toward the screen, he turns the power off. “Who’s this pretty thing you have with you, Winston?”
“This is Stevie, my granddaughter.”
I’ve never heard him call me that before. I like the way it sounds coming out of his mouth.
“What brings you to town? It’s not the Jazz Fest already?”
“No, that was last month. I was picking up Stevie. She was in Pensacola with her aunt’s family. Taking her back to Little Esther.”
The man faces me. “Oh, you poor pitiful thing. Little Esther, where they watch the grass grow.”
“Stevie, meet Jack. We used to play a few tunes together.”
“Only about a thousand or two.” Jack stretches his right arm my way and we give each other a good handshake.
He gives me a long, hard look. “She’s got Dovie’s eyes, don’t she?”
“And her mother’s,” Winston says.
Jack stares at the guitar. “You gonna play me a tune?”
“I’ve got a song or two left in me,” Winston says.
“Let’s hear it now.”
Winston opens the case and pulls out the guitar. “Stevie, can you pull that chair up for me?”
I scoot the chair so that he’s close to Jack’s bedside. For a couple of minutes, he plucks the strings and tunes the instrument. Then he begins to play. The music is familiar. When he sings the first words, I remember the song and a whole lot more.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night.
I remember the beach and the man with curly hair.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
I remember him holding my hands and leading me into the water. “See the waves?” he said. “Jump.” I remember my mother laughing and singing with the man. Singing this song.
Winston’s voice is gentle and smooth. When he finishes, Jack says, “That’s real nice.”
Winston catches me rubbing my eyes. He doesn’t have to ask. I see the question on his face. He’s wondering if I remember.
We soon tell Jack good-bye and leave.
On the porch next to the rockers, I ask, “We went to the beach with Mom, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did.” I can tell he’s pleased.
“I thought it was a dream. Were we in Pensacola?”
“Galveston,” he says.
Back on the other side of the river, Winston takes me to the French Quarter, and for the second time that month I eat beignets. This time at Café Du Monde. There’s music pouring into the streets and people walking everywhere. When we go to cross to Jackson Square, we step back, because coming down the road is a guy on a unicycle. He is tall, very tall. He breezes by us so fast.
“Did you see that?” Winston says. His voice is an octave higher. “That guy must be seven feet tall!”
We watch the man’s back until he turns onto another street. Everyone is stopping and gawking. I’m reminded of the knitting lady’s words: Everyone always stops for a giant on a unicycle. All these months, I thought about seeing him with that red scarf around his neck, holding a stack of flyers in his hands. But today there are no flyers and he’s wearing a blue T-shirt. That shouldn’t be a surprise, because it feels like it’s a hundred degrees outside. Still, I’m excited about seeing him and I can’t help thinking it’s a sign.
On the drive to Little Esther, I want to ask so many questions, but I hold off. The details will spill out from Winston a little at a time. Like Mom’s photographs, I want the stories to unfold and I want to savor each bit. We have a w
hole lifetime to catch up. There is one question that I want answered now, though.
“Winston?”
“Hmm?”
“What’s in Room Twelve?”
He pauses a long time. For a minute, I think he’s not going to answer me. Then he says, “My life.”
* * *
AT THE MOTEL, something is different. Then I realize it’s the garden. A bench now sits under the arbor. There are marigolds and periwinkles. Lots of marigolds and periwinkles. I smile. Roy must have had something to do with this. They aren’t perennials, but I love the garden. Maybe that’s what seeing the giant on the unicycle in New Orleans meant. Even if life doesn’t turn out exactly like we thought it would, it can still be wonderful. Just because Mom and Dad died, it doesn’t mean my life is over. They would want me to be happy.
Marigolds and periwinkles. “Who did this?” I ask.
“Everyone. Roy, Arlo, Violet,” Winston says. “Even Horace and Ida helped with the watering. And Mercedes planted some seeds around that arbor. Morning glories, I think. They aren’t blooming yet. We started the day after you left.”
Then, as we drive up next to it, I see a patch of phlox that has reseeded from the ones Mom planted. Their pink pom-poms wave to me in the breeze as if they’re welcoming me back. Back home.
Chapter Forty-Eight
ROY AND I are almost finished with Mrs. Crump’s yard. Then we’re going to tackle Violet’s. Australia will have to wait. I used the money for gardening tools at Gavert’s. Nancy gave me a great discount.
I’ve been home a month and during that time Roy and I have become guerrilla gardeners. We show up, plant, and tidy the yards. Nancy provides all our plantings. She knows the people here who can’t afford her service.
The motel garden hasn’t gotten us more customers, but the ones who do stop seem happier. Some of them even walk out to the garden and, if the yellow cat we call Buttercup is not stretched out there, they sit on the bench under the arbor. Mercedes’s morning glories have started to bloom. Sometimes I want to say to the people sitting there, Do you know there’s a love story tangled in that vine?
Arlo and Violet have become quite the couple, but these days the love story I like most is Horace and Ida, who are finally on their honeymoon. Winston tracked down the driver who drove the bus for them years ago when they were dating. The one who helped them elope. Seems only natural he’d be the one to take them to Pensacola. Winston took care of all the expenses, including a room with a beach view.
The sun is high in the sky. Roy and I are sweating buckets. I thought Mrs. Crump would have heard Roy mowing the lawn, but she hasn’t come out of the house yet. Then I realize it’s ten till two. Naptime. Soon after the clock strikes two, she comes out of the house and, from the porch, surveys what we’ve done. “Oh, my! What did I do to deserve this kindness?”
After she goes back inside, Roy says, “You’re right. She’s kind of cool, isn’t she?” He says it with that one-dimple grin that always makes my legs wobbly.
Winston picks us up in his van. He told Mrs. Crump last week that I’d be going to the high school this fall. I asked him what she said. “Actually, she looked relieved. Or sleepy. I’m not sure which.”
Frida never wrote me back, but I didn’t expect her to. Her mom was right. She’ll be starting school with me this fall. I figure she might need someone around to help her with geography. I did receive three letters, though. One was from Aunt Teresa inviting me back next summer and any other time that I’d like. Megan’s letter was short. She and Brad broke up. “It was all because of the library boy.” She just couldn’t get him out of her mind.
The third letter, which I received yesterday, was from Paco. He sent me a check for $784.54. He told me that the money for the farm was in a special account waiting for me. This was a refund from something else.
He wrote,
While going through the last of your parents’ possessions, I found six bus tickets. They were for this summer and for two destinations—Dallas and, a week later, Alexandria, Louisiana. Apparently they were planning two trips with you. I’m surprised your dad didn’t mention it to me, since I’m sure I would have been asked to look after the farm while you were away. Because of the circumstances, I was able to get a full refund. I hope you’ll enjoy the money. Have some fun with it. I think your parents would like that. Write to me and let me know how you’re doing. I’ll always be here for you.
Love, Paco
My parents were planning on visiting my grandfather and Aunt Teresa after all. The tickets prove it. Although knowing the trip would never happen for them makes me sad, knowing they planned it makes me happy. I decide I’ll wait for the right moment to show Paco’s letter to Winston. Maybe for his birthday next week. I’ll make him chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes with cream gravy. I’ll wrap the letter in pretty paper and tie it with a bow. I’ll make a copy and send it to Aunt Teresa too.
On the way back to the motel, Roy and Winston talk about the Dallas Cowboys’ upcoming season. I stare out the window. The weather is hot and dry. It’s a good thing I chose plants that don’t need much watering or fussing.
I’m thinking about my plans for Violet’s yard when I see a guy walking along the highway in the distance. Even though he’s way off, I notice his blue backpack. I wonder if Dad walked along this very stretch of road when he was passing through Little Esther. The guy is still ahead of us, but for a moment I imagine him as Dad. Then I see Mom walking next to him, her blond curls blowing in the wind and her camera around her neck.
Their images are so clear that I press my hand against the window, yearning for them to look my way. My reflection in the glass stares back at me. Then I realize—I am there. And they are here. After all that has happened these last few months, I believe this. I’m like that seedling in the spot between where the sweetheart trees once grew. Despite everything, I’m certain it’s growing, reaching toward the clouds, branching out to all the places they once had been.
Acknowledgments
My editor and I worked together for two years before ever seeing each other. Less than twenty-four hours after we’d finally met, she kindly sat on my suitcase so that I could lock it. Christy, you are always helping me get to the next place. When you think about it, that’s kind of astonishing after twenty years of working together. Thank you for your support and belief in my work.
Thank you, Amy, for valuing my career. Thank you for your honesty and integrity. I value you.
Thank you to my Writing Retreat pals—Kathi, Jeanette, Rebecca, and Lola—for your encouragement and wisdom. Much gratitude to Jenny and Charlotte, too, for friendship, words, and commas. Thanks to Jane, Martha, and Amanda for reading a few early chapters. Thanks, Dewayna, for a glimpse into your beautiful work. Thank you to the good folks at Halbert’s Nursery.
My parents grew up in Forest Hill and worked in nurseries. They shared those years through their stories. As a writer and their daughter I’m grateful for that. And for my mom and grandfather who passed down their love for gardening to me.
Every writer needs a gifted first reader. My daughter has been mine since she was seven. Thank you, thank you, Shannon.
And thank you, Jerry, for being the kind of husband who twenty-two years ago gave me a year to just write. You drive me crazy, but I love you.
Other novels by
KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT
MY LOUISIANA SKY
WHEN ZACHARY BEAVER CAME TO TOWN
KEEPER OF THE NIGHT
PART OF ME
THE WATER SEEKER
DEAR HANK WILLIAMS
The Piper Reed series
PIPER REED, NAVY BRAT
PIPER REED, CLUBHOUSE QUEEN
PIPER REED, PARTY PLANNER
PIPER REED, CAMPFIRE GIRL
PIPER REED, RODEO STAR
PIPER REED, FOREVER FRIEND
About the Author
Kimberly Willis Holt is the author of many acclaimed novels, including Dear Hank Williams, The Wate
r Seeker, My Louisiana Sky, and When Zachary Beaver Came to Town, winner of the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature. She is also the author of the popular Piper Reed chapter book series and several picture books. Holt was born in Pensacola, Florida, and has lived all over the world, from Paris to Norfolk to Guam to Forest Hill and New Orleans. She now resides and gardens in Texas.
Visit her online at kimberlywillisholt.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part 1: Seedling
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 2: Cultivate
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part 3: Sow
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Blooming at the Texas Sunrise Motel Page 17