Shirley didn’t sound like she appreciated having to call Maggie. Maybe she didn’t like Maggie being at the farmhouse. “You must have been asleep,” she said flatly.
Maggie nodded. “On the couch,” she felt the need to explain.
“Well…Canon asked me to call you, so I called you.” The phone went silent. Shirley was done talking to her.
Maggie stared into the dimly lit kitchen for several minutes, wondering what to do.
Suddenly she flipped on every light switch she could find—in the kitchen, in the laundry, in the dining and living rooms. She couldn’t bear the darkness with so many ghosts lurking in the house. Then Maggie prowled until she found what was needed to make Canon a quiche. Then, as dawn broke over the horizon, she used the truck keys to drive back into town.
Shirley was sitting on a plastic chair outside Canon’s room when Maggie walked in. “You made him a pie? After all that sweet stuff at the festival?”
Maggie let the criticism pass. Shirley had a rough night, too. “It’s a quiche.”
Shirley scrunched her nose. “I doubt he’s ever had quiche in his life.”
As Shirley reached for the pie plate and looked suspiciously under the foil, Maggie peeped through the narrow window at Canon. He was asleep, a thick bandage wrapped around his head.
“Bullet grazed the back, behind his left ear. Lord help…same side as Daddy.”
Shirley called her father ‘Daddy’?
“Paul said gettin’ shot in the head is like havin’ it slammed against a wall. Concussion risk, even if it was only a graze. That’s why he wouldn’t let him drive home, much as Canon hollered to.”
“How long has he been asleep?” Maggie whispered.
Shirley set the quiche on the chair beside her. “Not long. He makes about the worst patient you ever saw, plus they didn’t want him to sleep right away because of the concussion risk.”
This was the most Shirley had ever said to her. Maggie looked past Shirley back down the hallway, toward the door she’d come in. Early morning light shafts streamed in on the tile floor. Maggie felt a sudden urge to run. Get in that old truck, hightail it back to the cabin and pack her bags. Burn the manuscript she’d been working on in the metal barrel out back. Get out of here. Never come back.
The same gathering wave that hurtled toward Maggie when Tom sat her down on the sofa in August rushed toward her again. She had tried to work out the details while cooking. Cooking—the act of creation—always helped her think.
Drop off the quiche as a last goodwill gesture. Leave the keys with Mr. Thompson. Tell the old man she was sorry, but she couldn’t tell his son’s story after all. It was too hard. She lacked the constitution to stomach this much truth and fiction. The world had enough pain without her drawing attention to more. Best to bury the past in the ground and leave it. Stay safe in a high-rise condo. Alone. Because she wasn’t buying into the old adage that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Better to wall off one’s emotions and never get hurt again. That’s what Maggie was thinking as she eyed the light shaft coming in on the institutional flooring down the hallway.
Shirley must have seen the struggle on her face, because she suddenly spat, “Why did you bring him food if you’re just going to walk out of his life!”
Her words came out so uncharacteristically fast, they stopped Maggie as if the woman had slapped her.
Shirley eyed Maggie up and down. “Canon don’t need some quiche-bakin’ writer, a city woman, complicatin’ his life. But I could tell from before I even met you—from the way he talked about you—you meant something to him. I don’t know what you did, what kind of spell you wove so fast, but there it is. He likes you. If you go and break his heart…”
Shirley’s voice broke. She scrunched her nose again.
To keep from crying?
Maggie didn’t know what to say. Shirley was right, Maggie had been planning her escape. Because Maggie only had one heart herself, and was trying to protect it.
Shirley thrust a finger at Canon’s hospital room. “That man has been through hell and back. You know why I think he never let himself love anybody in all these years since Rita? Because of this right here—this thing that’s making you think of bolting. Because it’s hard what he does. He’s watched people act bad and hurt one another for thirty-two years. And he’s had nothing to counter that ’cept the farm.”
Shirley’s nostrils breathed fire. She and Maggie stood awkwardly beside the two plastic chairs in the hallway, avoiding one another’s eyes, not speaking.
Finally, Shirley said. “I’m the one they call. Lord, I’m used to it. I’m a Dale. Doing hard things is in our bloodline. But I don’t know that you’ve got the stomach for this sort of thing.”
Maggie didn’t like Shirley smelling her fear.
Okay. Yes. She was rattled to see Canon lying in a hospital bed looking vulnerable. She might have enjoyed the feel of his thumbs over her hip bones, but Maggie was sensible enough to know passion was one thing, love was another. Anyone could muster passion in a heated moment, especially two touch-starved people. But not just anyone would sit outside your hospital room or clean your vomit from the seats of their Camaro.
Love and passion were not the same things at all. But for Shirley to suggest Maggie couldn’t go the distance? The nerve!
Maggie took a deep breath, willing her panic and anger to simmer down. Shirley had a rough night, too.
She glared at Shirley, picked up the quiche, and went to the door of Canon’s hospital room. When Maggie looked inside she saw a man who made her heart clench. Tom. Zeke. Canon. All three knocking her off balance.
If Tom hadn’t made his choices…if Zeke hadn’t told me to leave the light switch down…I might never have met Canon Dale.
Maggie looked over her shoulder at Shirley. “I can do hard things, too. You don’t own the market on that.”
Shirley nodded with deliberation—or was it satisfaction—then reached for her purse. “Delores Hinton is on duty at the nurse’s station. She knows to call me if there’s any change.”
Maggie watched her go down the hall and out the door. Then she leaned her forehead against the glass and studied Canon again.
What would Maggie have found herself doing today if Tom hadn’t offered Bethany a job? Trim those hydrangeas by the pool? Rake out the winter leaves so the perennials could breathe?
Bethany had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Robbie called to tell her shortly after leaving the cabin on Monday. And there lay Canon in a hospital bed, never having had the chance to be a father before finding his wife dead in the yard.
Maggie didn’t know how long she stood watching him before a nurse came down the hallway.
“Are you here to see Canon?”
Maggie nodded.
The nurse sniffed the air. “Did you bring him breakfast? That was nice.”
When the nurse pushed the door open, Maggie followed her in. Canon stirred and immediately reached for her hand. “Maggie.”
Delores checked the fluid bag and instrument readings on the machines next to Canon’s bed. “Look at that heartbeat reading,” she muttered as if to herself. “Went up a notch.” She raised her brows. “Must be that good-smelling breakfast this pretty lady’s done brought you.”
“It’s quiche,” said Maggie.
Canon’s eyes never left Maggie’s as he reached for it.
“Do you want to know what’s in it?” she asked.
Canon shook his head. “Not if you made it. You mind getting me a fork, Delores?”
“I’ll bring two.” The nurse smiled and left.
“You found the truck key?”
Maggie nodded.
“I’m sorry about this.”
Canon looked as meek as Maggie had ever seen him, in a patterned hospital gown, with those strong, hair-covered forearms showing. She could tell Canon was going to be fine physically…only his heart was still at risk.
“Don’t be,” sh
e whispered.
“Some date I am, to leave the girl home by herself.”
Maggie bit her lip. “On the butcher block island, no less.”
She was a goner when his look turned sheepish then serious. “It was the best part of my evening.”
“Mine, too.”
He stared at her a minute. “How long will you be in Marston this time?”
“I need to go back today.”
“Oh.” She watched his face fall. “Least you got to see the cherry trees in bloom.”
“Yes.” Maggie smoothed the top of Canon’s hair. Take that, Shirley Weems. Twenty-four hours ago Maggie wouldn’t have had the boldness to touch Canon like this, but now she knew she loved him—she’d made the decision in the hallway. How could she not, knowing he loved her?
Love changed everything.
“I got to see the cherry trees in town and the dozen or so out at your place. And the pond, and the peonies, and the gazebo. The sun comes up over your fruit orchard.”
Light was coming back into his eyes. “Did you watch it from the porch?”
Maggie shook her head. “Saw it when I went out to get the truck.”
Canon held the quiche in one hand, but still held hers with the other. “Maybe you can sit out there with me sometime to watch it. That’s the best view.” He pulled her hand to his lips.
Delores walked back in. “I declare, Canon Dale! How you goin’ to recover if you keep gettin’ that heart rate up?” She set the forks on his side table, shot Maggie a wink, then left again.
“Are you sure you feel like eating, Canon?”
He let go of her hand and peeled the foil off the quiche. “Of course I feel like eating.”
They ate directly from the pie plate. Delores brought them each a cup of coffee and offered Maggie a handful of liquid creamers. “Wasn’t sure how you liked it. This is the best we’ve got. I know he’s picky about his coffee. He’s been here enough times.” She threw Canon a look.
Paul Wilkins came breezing in, obviously having had his morning coffee. “How you feelin’, Canon?”
“Fine!” Canon barked. “Get me out of here.”
“You can go by ten if your vitals stay strong, but will you take it easy for a couple of days?” Paul smiled at Maggie and checked under Canon’s bandage. “On second thought, I don’t like this swelling. Let me keep you here one more day.”
“Good Lord, Paul! You know I’m not fragile.” Canon scowled.
“You’re bound to have a splitting headache.”
Canon didn’t deny it. Paul looked at Maggie. “Best thing for him is rest.”
“You’re right. I should go.” Maggie had settled herself on the edge of his bed to share breakfast, but now stood.
“No.” Canon reached for Maggie’s hand again.
“Yes,” insisted Paul. “Or I’ll keep you two more days.”
Maggie wrapped the leftovers back up.
“Can I keep that?” asked Canon. “It’s so much better than the food around here.”
Delores had come back in. “I take offense at that. But I’ll put it in the mini-fridge at the nurse’s station. Only because you’re the sheriff.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” said Canon.
“Well…I did appreciate you not giving Julie that speedin’ ticket.” Delores swept out of the room with Canon’s quiche.
Maggie squeezed his hand. “I need to be home for a few days, but I’ll be back.”
“How soon?’
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Alright.” Canon braced his jaw like a man who’d seen his share of disappointment, like a man trying not to get his hopes up.
That’s why Maggie, ignoring Paul, who was still in the room, kissed Canon solidly on the mouth before walking out.
31
Frederick Buechner said “…humanity is like an enormous spider web, so that if you touch it anywhere, you set the whole thing trembling…
As we move around this world… we too are setting the great spider web a-tremble. The life that I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place and time my touch will be felt.” Frederick Buechner, The Hungering Dark
Before Maggie left for Nashville, she stopped at Mr. Thompson’s. She stood on his porch breathing in the fresh fragrance of April following the night’s rain.
“I may take a little longer before coming back, Ollie. I need some time to think—time to work on all the pieces of information in my head. But before I go, would you mind if I asked you a couple more questions about Zeke?”
“Of course! Come in.” He held the door open.
Notebook and pen in hand, Maggie took her spot in Irene’s old recliner.
“I’d like to write this story from Zeke’s perspective, from his point of view. Do you mind if I take that angle?”
Mr. Thompson thought a minute. “I don’t mind. I imagine that’s not easy, never having known him.”
Maggie had decided not to tell Mr. Thompson about the two days she spent with his son. It was a decision born of compassion. If she told him, he might or might not believe her. Then he’d wonder why Zeke hadn’t come to see him. The most compassionate way she could offer Zeke back to Mr. Thompson was to resurrect him on the page. She didn’t think she would ever tell anyone except Canon about actually having met Zeke.
“After all this research, I almost feel like I did know him.” She glanced over at Zeke’s picture on the console. “But nobody knew your son as well as you did, Ollie. I’d love to hear why you think he stayed with Tandy.”
The old man nodded. “I think Zeke knew pretty quick he’d made a mistake with Tandy. He was star struck with her at first, but…he knew. Me and Irene—Irene especially—hoped Tandy might change after they married. But it’s a hard thing for a person to change…to outgrow their raisin’.
“On the one hand I was proud of Zeke for sticking it out. His mother stuck it out with me. Lord knows I tried to give up the bottle. If Irene had ever given up on me, I don’t know what I would’ve done. She saved my life. Her faith in me is the only reason I’m here.
“You know, young people today, they don’t seem willin’ to put up with much before they leave. You could argue some of them have a right to—I reckon Zeke had a right to. But there’s a part of me that’s proud of him, all the same.”
Maggie felt a pang of guilt. Should she have stayed with Tom? Forgiven his actions and tried to work it out? It wasn’t the first time she’d asked herself those questions. But Tom didn’t ask her to stay. Not once. Would she, if he had? She didn’t know the answer. A person could always speculate, but until you found yourself actually living through a moment like that, you didn’t know what you’d do, which path you’d choose.
“I’ll never forget the call we got that night,” Mr. Thompson went on. “Canon was a deputy then, real young, but it was him that called. ‘Ollie,’ he said, ‘I got some bad news. Zeke’s been arrested for murder.’ I dropped the phone. Irene, she…she’d had a bad feelin’ for weeks. Said she knew death was in the air.
“She grabbed the phone up and said, ‘What is it? What’s happened to our boy?’ And when Canon told her she cried—cried—not for Tandy bein’ dead, but for Zeke bein’ caught up in it. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what give her the cancer.”
Maggie knew then she was on the right track with her opening lines. The story was knitting itself together, she just had to keep pace with it. Irene was diagnosed with breast cancer two months after Zeke was arrested, and died six months before his escape. Maggie had an Excel spreadsheet with all the dates.
“Zeke said that man from Trenton beat Tandy before he got there,” continued Ollie. “And he was tellin’ the truth. I know he was tellin’ the truth. He never lied to us, not one time. He told the truth even when it broke our hearts.
“Tandy shot the man, right before Zeke got there, then she begged him to finish it. She was paralyzed, you see.
From the beatin’ that man had given her.
“Zeke never would have beat her like that, then shot her. She’d cheated on him lots of times and he never laid a hand on her for it. But the courts didn’t believe a man would put up with that. So they convicted him. Gave him a thirty-year sentence, which was as light as it could have been. State of Tennessee calls for at least fifteen years on a second-degree murder charge. I didn’t know if you knew that. I didn’t know that before this happened.
“Zeke was at Riverbend in Nashville the first two years, then got transferred to Turney Center because he wasn’t no trouble. Read everything he could get his hands on. Was taking college classes by mail, even a Bible correspondence course.”
Mr. Thompson got a far off look in his eye. Maggie gave him a minute, before asking, “Will you be upset with me if I take some artistic license that differs from your memory of how things really were, Ollie?”
Maggie knew from talking to Canon, and from her own experience, that everyone’s version of the truth was a little different. It wasn’t her intent to manipulate any of the facts she’d learned about Zeke’s life. But there were holes, and the only way to fill them was with her own imagination.
“What kind of artistic license? Are you going to say he didn’t kill her?” Mr. Thompson’s face clouded. “I don’t think Zeke would have liked that, if you made him out to be more innocent than he was.”
“No, I don’t intend to change any of the information that the evidence points to. But I’ve worked on this enough to know there will be moments when I’m putting it all together that I’ll need to fill in the gaps. I may not fill them in with my words the way you’ve filled them in with your own thoughts.”
He nodded. “I see what you’re sayin.’” Mr. Thompson leaned toward her rocker and patted her hand. “I trust you, Maggie.”
Ollie Thompson had no reason to place such faith in her. His trust made Maggie all the more determined to do her best with the story. “I’ve had a promising conversation with an agent. The reason I need to go home today is to meet with her. Then I plan to sequester myself until the first draft is ready. When I get the manuscript in decent shape, can I bring you a copy? I’d like to have you read it before I submit it to a publisher.”
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