by Nancy Naigle
Denali pawed at her leg, startling her. She hadn’t even heard him come up. She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch with him at her heels. After lowering herself to the step, she put her elbows on her knees and rested her forehead in her hands.
The AC unit in the kids’ bedroom window whirred. She wondered if it bothered any of the neighbors. It sounded like a freight train out here. But it was doubtful anyone else had their windows open.
From where she was sitting, she could reach the watering can she’d left on the railing this morning. She lifted it and gave her plants a sprinkle. Flower boxes filled with herbs hung from the long porch rails. Some of them she’d transplanted from her garden back home, and some were new. Like the rosemary. She’d never grown it before, but she’d been drawn to the Christmas tree–shaped bush adorned with tiny ornaments while shopping for supplies at the hardware store. The smell was so inviting, almost too perfume-like to believe you could cook with it. She’d been delighted to find that it brightened every dish from beef, chicken, and fish to potatoes. She and the kids had experimented with lemon rosemary cookies and cake, too, with surprisingly good results.
She grabbed a pair of scissors from the stoop and snipped fresh herbs from the plants. Tending to them had been her salvation. Before Jack died, she’d made herb-infused oils and salts for hours. It had become a hobby with purpose. She’d never been one to want to have a junk room full of crafting supplies like many of her friends had. Scrapbooking, quilting, even knitting required more gear than she cared to accumulate. At least with the herbs, she could cook with them, even provide nutritional value, and that appealed to her.
Less is more. That had always been her motto.
She snipped a few more sprigs to hang up and dry. The lemon balm and lavender looked pretty, and they had healing properties. Can’t get enough of that.
How bad would my life be if I didn’t have a porch full of these plants? Calming lemon balm. Lazing lavender. Oregano for respiratory issues. Dill, basil, sage, mint, parsley, and thyme all had their roles too.
She lifted the clippings and let them rest on her arm against her body, not wanting to crush them.
“Come on, Denali.” He followed her inside, where she separated the sprigs on the counter.
Last weekend she’d stopped at a garage sale on her way back home from the grocery store. Among the yard full of household items, there’d been a huge over-the-couch-size painting in an ornate frame, marked thirty dollars. The picture itself was horrible: dark muted colors smudged together with a stormy look that couldn’t be anything but bad mojo. Who would want something so ominous in their house?
That was probably why it was still sitting there so late in the day. The frame was worth more than the painting would ever be. She offered ten dollars, and the woman looked grateful to have a bid at all.
Amanda had walked away with that huge painting, and the first thing she’d done when she got home was rip the canvas from the frame. She rolled it up and smooshed it deep down in the big trash bin outside. With the kids’ help, she went to town scrubbing the years of collected dust and grime away from the frame.
Surprisingly, it cleaned up nicely. A much lighter color, with almost a golden shimmer to the stained wood. All it needed was a coat of gloss over it.
“It’s pretty, Mom.” Hailey already had very clear opinions on decorative items.
“I think so too.” She stood it up and leaned it against the pump house to dry in the sun.
Later, she hauled the half-empty bucket of polyurethane from the shed. She brushed two coats on the frame while the kids and Denali raced through the backyard, their playful giggles like background music.
She dragged an old roll of chicken wire that she’d found in the shed when they moved in. It had long ago lost its shine. She’d almost thrown it out a couple of times, but she was glad she’d resisted the temptation. It would be perfect.
She measured the frame, then rolled out enough chicken wire to cut a piece to size. Her kitchen scissors wouldn’t do it, and she hated to ruin them by trying. She went back into the shed and rummaged through Jack’s old toolbox. She pulled out a chisel and a hammer. It only took one swift bump with the hammer to separate the delicate wire.
Thump-thump-thump. She made her way through every octagon and then attached the wire to the back of the frame with a few well-placed paneling nails.
Hailey and Jesse walked over and squatted beside her. “What are you making?” Hailey asked.
“Guess!” Amanda loved playing the guessing game with these two. Their minds always surprised her.
“Jail!” Jesse held his hands up like he was behind bars.
“Oh no. What are you in jail for?”
“Too many cookies.”
“What? Have you been sneaking my cookies?” she pretended to be mad.
“No, I ate Sissie’s.”
She glanced over at Hailey. “He didn’t steal them. I let him have them.”
Amanda picked up an imaginary gavel. “I release you from jail.” She banged the gavel three times, then pretended to toss it over her shoulder. “You are free to roam the yard.”
He lifted his hands in the air, then took a lap around the grass.
She picked up the framed wire, pleased with the results. “Y’all can help me hang it.”
They followed her inside like baby ducks on a windy day, rushing to keep up with her.
She held the frame up to the blank wall near the door. “What do you think?”
“Okay,” Jesse said.
“It needs a picture.” Hailey pulled her hands to her hips.
“Well, I thought we could turn this into a project. Once a week we can cut herbs, tie them with pretty ribbons, and hang them here to dry.”
“So, then we can make yummy salts?”
“Exactly. Or with the lavender, we could make potpourri so everything smells pretty.”
“I love that.”
“I’ll teach you both how to tie a bow too.”
“Yes.” Jesse fist-pumped. Oh how Jack would’ve loved Jesse’s spunk. It may have been the product of too much television early on, but now that they were at the beach, there was a whole lot less television—proving Jesse’s personality was growing and he was more like Jack all the time.
Amanda lifted the frame into place, then positioned the kids below it, letting them steady it above their heads. They looked like they were in a lineup. She marked the spot for a couple of nails. It was nice that the wood lap of this old house made for easier hanging than the crummy drywall at the old house. She tapped in two nails, then hung the frame. Shabby chic was definitely becoming her thing, and she wasn’t about to apologize for it.
Smiling at the memory, Amanda hung some of the fresh herbs on the frame. Clipped together there, they should dry quickly. She hadn’t worked on a new combination for her salts in a while. With all the plants she was growing, she was motivated to get started again even though the business had flopped before she ever got it underway.
Savory thyme, oregano, basil, and the teeniest bit of rosemary filled the room with a pleasing aroma. Changing one element made a completely different experience. Not just the scent, but the taste too.
She treated each combination as an experiment, carefully cataloging every measurement and result. She loved the scientific part of it. Coming up with recipes was just as much fun, although Hailey and Jesse didn’t really have the adult palette she needed for input.
She spread out the leftover clippings on her cutting board. Then she took the mortar and pestle Jack had given her for Mother’s Day the year Hailey was born, and she ground the mixture of herbs. There was an art to knowing how much to mix them. In the beginning she’d pulverized them, thinking they needed to almost dissolve into the mixture, but they lost their aroma and flavors that way. She closed her eyes, enjoying the s
ound of the tool against the mortar. She inhaled, adding a sprig of this, a leaf of that, until she stumbled upon just the right mix.
Working the herbs into the salt was her favorite part. She let the new combination rest while she neatened the house to prepare for another day tomorrow. After stacking the books on the coffee table, she picked up the small hardbound one that her friend Ginny had sent her after they’d buried Jack. She still hadn’t read it. She should, if for no other reason than that her friend spent her hard-earned money on it. Amanda opened the front cover and read the inscription written inside.
Amanda,
I have no idea what to say or possibly do to help make this okay for you. It’s heartbreaking. I’m grasping at straws here. I hope there is one tiny soothing moment amidst these pages somewhere that you can cling to. One breath of solace at a time.
I’m so sorry this happened to you.
I’m always just a phone call away. Any hour. Anytime.
Ginny
Amanda folded the cover against the inscription. She’d read that note countless times since Jack died, but it read differently tonight. It didn’t happen to me; it happened to Jack. I was just collateral damage. Broken, and she would never be the same.
“Be grateful,” Mom had said after reading an article about the healing powers of gratitude. Everyone had an answer, something to try. It was exhausting, really.
I have things to be thankful for. She wasn’t an idiot. She was just sad, and didn’t she have a right to be sad?
She had their children. She had shelter. She’d been provided for. Yes, perhaps modestly so, but she had enough. She was grateful for all of it, but that didn’t dissolve the grief and there were just as many opinions on that.
She’d read about the five stages of grief or DABDA. Three stages of grief: Coping. Grieving. Surviving. In the end, all the books said the same thing: it was hard, and everyone’s experience was different. And that was probably why she never bothered to read any of them to completion, because, really, all she wanted to know was that there was hope.
It was nice that Ginny had bought her a book with God’s worldview, although she wondered if she had read any of it before picking it out. Ginny had never been one to go to church unless it had been following a Saturday-night sleepover at Amanda’s house.
She flipped open the book to a random page and started reading.
Stop surviving each day, and thrive in your life.
That was sound advice. It was true she’d kept her focus on one day at a time, but some big-picture thinking would do her good. She might tape that quote to her mirror.
She flipped through a few more pages until the first line of the chapter caught her eye.
It’s okay to decline offers.
Now you’re talking, she thought.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. “Thank you, but I’m busy” is a perfectly acceptable response. People don’t have to know that what you’re busy with is taking deeper breaths and silencing irrational thoughts. They might understand; they might not. Just thank them for the invitation and encourage them to ask again next time. I promise that you will feel like saying yes again one day. Only you can decide when that is, and that is okay.
She gave the book a nod of approval, and rather than tossing it back on the table as decor, she carried it to her bedroom. Maybe I’ll read a page a day, she thought as she stretched out on her bed.
Amanda flipped to the back cover. There an attractive dark-haired woman smiled back at her with a list of accolades five lines long.
Oh yeah, easy for you to say. If I can get through this and look even half as confident as you are, I’ll be doing good.
7
Maeve hadn’t slept a wink, and for the life of her, she didn’t know what was keeping her awake. She’d tossed and turned until she finally gave up trying.
She slid the bedroom patio door open and stepped out onto the deck. The humid air hung so thick she playfully grabbed for a handful of it. There was no breeze tonight. Earlier the sky had been dark beneath a heavy curtain of clouds. She couldn’t even see the waves crash against the shoreline then, but now the nearly full moon cast light over everything, almost sparkling as it danced on the moving water.
Her dog, Methuselah, tapped across the room, hopping over the threshold as if it were a hurdle. She needed to get his nails trimmed. Sometimes when they got long, as they were now, it sounded like he was marching through the house in flip-flops.
He sprawled out on the deck and let out a sigh.
She sighed too.
Sleepless nights frustrated her. Something was at the edge of her mind. Whatever it was, she wrestled with it, wishing it would become clear. But it remained just out of reach.
She glanced over her shoulder at the clock in her bedroom. There was still an hour and a half until sunrise. If she got dressed and walked up the beach to the diner, Tug would probably be there by the time she arrived.
Maeve put on an orange T-shirt and stepped into a flowered skirt. She felt graceful like a dancer when she wore it, enjoying the way it swished across her shins. The gauzy fabric made it a good option on hot days, plus the material dried quickly, which she considered to be perfect for beachwear. She picked up her sandals and walked outside.
Bugs hung around the front-porch light like stragglers at an after-hours party. She swooshed them away and went downstairs.
She hadn’t even made it to the water, and her skin was already damp from the humidity. Once her feet hit the cool sand, she breathed easier. She lifted her arms in the air, feeling free all alone out there.
She and Tug had been through a lot over the years with him being Jarvis’s closest friend, the best man at their wedding. Her closest friend too. She’d now spent more years with Tug than with Jarvis.
Tug had never married. His high school sweetheart, Willa, had begged him to marry her, but he never did make an honest woman of her.
Maeve never had liked Willa. She was a constant complainer, and that didn’t sit well with her.
When one of Tug’s customers kicked the bucket, they’d left Tug their African gray. As soon as Tug learned there was at least another thirty years in that bird’s minimum expected life span, he’d decided to jokingly rename her The Wife.
When Willa heard about that name, she didn’t see the humor in it.
The Wife didn’t make a secret of what she thought about Willa, either, and to this day Tug swore he had nothing to do with it. But Maeve could picture Tug sitting in front of the bird with a picture of Willa, training it to respond, and she rather enjoyed the image.
Whenever Willa showed up at the diner, The Wife would say, “Time to go” or “You’re not gone yet?” or Maeve’s favorite, “I’m Tug’s wife for life.”
Maeve had seen Willa pitch a fit over that more than once. She didn’t come around much anymore. She finally realized Tug wasn’t going to marry her and had taken up with a man from up north.
Tug loved that crazy bird. He was known for threatening to leave her to anyone who gave him a hard time. “She’ll outlive me, and I’m going to bequeath her to you.” Truth was, he’d spent weeks working with a lawyer to come up with a plan for what to do with The Wife if something should happen to him.
Maeve climbed the access stairs from the beach to the restaurant. It was warm enough that Tug could leave The Wife out here on the gazebo all summer, and this morning was no exception. She sat in the corner of her tall cage, preening her bright-red tail feathers.
“Good morning. How’s The Wife today?” Maeve asked as she slipped on her sandals.
The bird flapped her wide wings and bowed her head. “I’m good, good, good, good, good. Rise and shine!”
“You’re always such a pleasure in the morning.”
The African gray perked up, bobbing her head high and low. �
�Good morning. Love you.”
“I love you too.” Maeve opened the cabinet under the cage and grabbed a couple of bird treats. She pinched one between her fingers and poked it through the frame.
The Wife took the cracker from her. “Mmm, mmm, good. Breakfast time.”
“Or at least coffee,” Maeve said.
“One sugar, one cream.” The Wife followed the order with a series of five clicks, sounding quite pleased with herself that she’d remembered.
“You always remember.”
The bird bobbed her head up and down again and then turned her back to Maeve and stretched, displaying her pretty tail feathers.
“You’re such a show-off.” Maeve shook her finger at the bird.
“You love me.”
“That I do.” Maeve reached through the cage, and the bird bent her head forward so Maeve could give her a little scratch. Too bad Methuselah couldn’t speak. It’d be nice to have two-way conversation with him, even if sometimes it didn’t make sense.
The smell of fresh coffee lured Maeve inside.
“Thought I heard The Wife up and at it,” Tug said. “What are you doing here so early?”
“I don’t know. Couldn’t sleep.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. You know how sometimes a thought is right there at the front of your mind?” She took a stool at the counter. “Like you’re forgetting something, or there’s something you should take care of? I have no idea what it is.”
“I hate that.” He grabbed a coffeepot and filled a heavy white mug for her. “You’re always welcome here before business hours. Glad you came.”
“Thanks.” She added one sugar to her coffee, and Tug topped off his.
“Gonna be a hot one today.”
Idle chitchat never did sit well with her. “It’s summer. What do you expect?”