Sweetgrass (8 page)

Nona placed her palms on the table and dragged herself to a stand. Lord, what a day, she thought, rubbing her back, feeling the ache travel straight down her legs. She carried the large book back to its resting place on the bookshelf. It wouldn’t be too long before Maize would make the final notation about her mother in the Bible, she thought. Nona wasn’t afraid of what was coming—no, she was not. She’d walked a straight path in her life, even if it seemed a bit narrow at times, and she would walk a straight path to the Lord when He called her home.

She gingerly nestled the fragile leather Bible between two sweetgrass baskets. One had been woven by her mother, Florence, and the other by her grandmother, Delia. She gently traced her fingers along the intricate stitches of the palmetto fronds that held together many strands of soft yellow sweetgrass. The baskets were old and dry, cracking at places, but the stitches held tight.

This treasured Bible and these precious woven baskets helped make her thoughts more clear. Looking at them, Nona realized that the histories of the Blakelys and the Bennetts were woven together just as tightly as the sweetgrass in these baskets. Like it or not, history could not be changed. It was what it was. Strong ties, the ones that are ironclad and bind souls, are forged in shared history, she thought. This was a bond, not bondage.

Nona readjusted the baskets on the shelf. Then she walked to a large cardboard box in the corner of the room, beside the sofa. In this box she stored the baskets she’d made to sell at her stand. Sorting through, she chose one she was particularly proud of. It was a deceptively simple design with the twisting handle she did so well. She held it up to the light, proud that the stitches were so tight, not a pinprick of light shone through. This basket would hold for generations to come.

Nona placed this basket on the kitchen table, then began to pull out flour, tins and her mixing bowls from the cabinets. All her earlier fatigue had vanished in the fervor of her new mission. She was clearheaded now and knew what she had to do.

SUNDAY DINNER HAD LONG
been a tradition for the Blakely family, as it was for many Southern families. Nan recalled Sunday dinner beginning in the early afternoon, soon after their return from church. Nona used to cover the dining room’s long mahogany table with the old damask tablecloth while Mama June set flowers from her garden in sparkling crystal vases. The Blakely silver would be set, polished to a burnished gleam, as well as the graceful candelabra that had come from the Clarks and had been promised to Nan.

She had taken for granted those days when the table was overflowing with uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. On those occasions when the extended family came, the children were sent, grumbling, to the kiddie table in the kitchen. But when it was just the immediate family, the children always sat at the dining room table and were expected to be on their best be
havior. On Monday night, they ate on everyday china. On Tuesday night, Hamlin might slouch in his chair. On Wednesday, Morgan might rest an elbow on the table. On Thursday, Daddy might remain silent, engrossed in his thoughts. On Friday, Nan might stir her peas on her plate or laugh with her mouth full at something Hamlin said. On these nights, Mama June looked the other way.

But on Sunday in the dining room, Mama June’s eyes were sharp and everyone was on their best behavior. Linen napkins were on the laps, no one left the table without being excused, Daddy was attentive to conversation, and each child was expected to know which fork to use.

The Sunday dinner tradition had fallen to the wayside after Hamlin’s death, when Mama June couldn’t summon the effort. It wasn’t decided upon; the tradition just silently slipped away.

To Nan’s mind, the end of Sunday dinners marked a sad turning point in the family’s history. The sense of collective purpose, the ready conversation, dissipated as silent months turned into years. In time, Nan married and left home, followed by Morgan’s angry departure to points west. Yet, even now, when she thought of her family, Nan thought of those precious years of joy when the family was strong and united together for Sunday dinner.

They arrived at Sweetgrass a little late. Chas and Harry had dragged their heels in a teenage sulk at having to get dressed up and spend a perfectly good day inside, bored to death. Hank seemed eager that they all attend the family dinner and had nagged at the boys to hurry. Nan looked into the rearview mirror. The boys sat sullen and resigned in the leather back seat of the sedan.

“Adele’s already here,” Hank said tersely as they pulled up to the house. Hank worked closely with Adele on devel
opment deals, thus Adele was not only a relative, but an employer.

Nan chewed her lip and checked her watch. “We’re only a half hour late. I doubt we’ve even been missed. Boys,” she called as her sons launched from the car. “Be on your best manners.”

They climbed the stairs to the front veranda where Mama June’s planters were filled with cheery yellow-and-purple pansies and all the brass was polished. Nan stood at the front door in her peach linen dress flanked by the tall, handsome men in her life. Beside her, Hank straightened his tie before ringing the bell. Nan picked a bit of lint from his shoulder and, alert to his tension, wondered why he seemed nervous about this gathering. Had he really been made to feel so much an outsider over the years? she wondered. She moved her hand to his arm and squeezed it reassuringly. He turned his head and looked at her with a quizzical expression.

The door swung wide. To her surprise, it was Aunt Adele who welcomed them in a sensational blouse of creamy raw silk, looking every bit the lady of the house.

“Here you are!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes brightening.

Preston’s sister was a tall, proud woman, as fierce a competitor in golf and tennis as in the real estate development business she’d built. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed away from her face, accentuating her trim, athletic good looks.

Nan began her litany of excuses, but Adele blithely waved them aside.

“Oh, none of that matters. Come in, come in! And you two,” she said, opening her arms to the boys. “Where have you been hiding? Come here this minute and give me a proper hug.”

Shuffling their feet, they obliged, but Nan didn’t miss the real affection between them. Adele was the godmother for both of her children. Never having married or had any chil
dren of her own, Adele doted on the boys and spoiled them with gifts. Mama June felt a little jealous that the boys spent more time at Adele’s spacious home on Sullivan’s Island, with her boats and pool and fridge filled with snacks, than at Sweetgrass. Adele was a wealthy woman who always had a spare dollar or three to hand out, while Mama June and Preston always had to pinch pennies.

Adele stood back to look at the boys. “My, my, don’t you look handsome.”

Chas rubbed his finger between his collar and neck. “Mama made us dress up.”

“Dress up? Honey, in my day, you boys would be in a jacket and tie. Without air-conditioning, mind you. So count your blessings.” She turned to Harry. “I thought you’d be out on the golf course this afternoon.”

He grimaced. “I should be. I’m playing in a tournament next week.”

“Your daddy told me. Say, I saw a new titanium putter at the club that’s as light as a feather and sure to help your game.”

“Yeah?” Harry exclaimed. “But I’ll bet it costs an arm and a leg.”

“Maybe not all that much.” She winked. “Be good today and we’ll talk.”

“Now, Aunt Adele…” Nan interjected, not wanting the boys to always feel they needed a reward for good behavior.

“We’d better join the others before they wonder where we are,” Adele interrupted, expertly steering the family into the living room.

The moment they stepped in, the room exploded with hoots and hollers. Morgan rushed out of his chair and wrapped Nan in a bear hug. The affection and banter flowed freely between brother and sister, spreading throughout the room.

Mama June wrapped her arms around herself, hearing the merriment as a string of firecrackers celebrating the family’s reunion. Hank smoothly stepped forward to act as bartender, serving the ladies mimosas.

“Morgan, what’s your poison?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, thanks.”

“A man after my own heart.”

“That sounds good to me, too, Dad,” Harry called out.

“There’re Cokes in the fridge,” Mama June replied. “Help yourself. But first, come say hello to your uncle.”

“I doubt they much remember you, Morgan,” Adele said.

Mama June thought the comment unkind, but Morgan sauntered over, extending his hand with a lopsided grin.

“I’ll bet you haven’t forgotten that boar hunt, huh?” he asked.

Harry, who adored hunting, shook his head and readily took Morgan’s hand. “No, sir!”

“What boar hunt?” Chas immediately wanted to know.

Harry launched into the tale, eliciting guffaws from Hank and Morgan. Mama June listened, attuned to the gift of storytelling that her grandson had inherited from his grandfather Blakely, along with Preston’s throaty laugh. Seeing the genetic imprint carry on from generation to generation was, for her, a blessing of growing older. Her attention was distracted, however, by Adele. She meandered about the room perusing the colonial-era furniture with a proprietary air. She stopped before an empire bookcase that held several pieces of family silver.

“Well, I’ll be….” She reached into the cabinet and lifted out a small engraved silver cup. “You found my porridge cup!”

Mama June came directly to her side. “Yes! After all these years we found it when we moved furniture in the dining room. It was wedged between the breakfront and the wall. Don’t ask me how it got there.”

“It was probably Press or Tripp that hid it there, just to rile
me.” Adele tenderly turned the burnished silver cup in her hands. “I never thought I’d see this again.”

“Why don’t you keep it? Take it home with you,” Mama June offered.

Adele’s gaze shot up. “How nice of you to offer me my own porridge cup,” she said with sharp sarcasm that put Mama June’s teeth on edge.

From the corner of her eye she caught Morgan’s swift turn of head at the tone, his eyes searching.

Despite Mama June’s protests, Adele put the porridge cup back on the shelf with a great show.

Mama June was sensitive to the fact that it was difficult for her sister-in-law to be a guest in the house she’d grown up in. Though she’d never said so openly, it was clearly understood by both women that even though Mama June
owned
Sweetgrass, she wasn’t
from
Sweetgrass. And that fact was a major burr under Adele’s seat.

Letting the comment slide, she smiled and announced it was time for dinner.

The large meal that Mama June had slaved over was consumed with relish and compliments. She beamed as she watched her grandsons help themselves to seconds of the chicken with Madeira sauce from an old family recipe. The cocktails had loosened their tongues and they talked amiably as they ate. For a while she felt transported in time to when such gatherings were commonplace at Sweetgrass. Morgan, never much of a talker, spoke openly about his life in Montana, and the boys ate up his stories and peppered him with questions. They liked him, she thought with delight. And the feeling was mutual. Too soon, it was time to clear the dishes, and Nan helped her serve the pecan pie and ice cream that was a universal favorite.

She was pouring coffee when a subtle mood shift indicated
they all sensed the chitchat was over and it was time to talk business. Their radars finely honed to such nuances, the boys asked to be excused from the table and dashed for the exit. Mama June sought Morgan’s eyes and they shared a commiserating look.

He cleared his throat and all heads turned toward him. She had purposefully set him in Preston’s seat at the head of the table, a gesture she knew had not gone unnoticed by Adele at his right. Nan sat to his left and Hank to Mama June’s right at the table’s other end.

“I wish my homecoming had been under happier circumstances,” he began.

“Lord knows we all waited long enough, bless your heart,” Adele said.

“Yes. A long time,” he replied.

How extraordinary, Mama June thought. How coolly her son dealt with Adele’s niggling.

“Well, you’re home now,” Nan said, springing to his defense. “That’s what’s important.”

Mama June smiled gratefully at her daughter.

“Anyway,” Morgan continued, “Mama June has asked me to stay on for a while. And I’ve agreed.”

Adele’s brows rose as she exchanged a quick glance with Hank, who frowned.

“That’s wonderful,” exclaimed Nan. “I’d hoped you would, what with Daddy in the hospital.”

That was her opening. Mama June set her cup down in the saucer and straightened her shoulders. She looked around the table then settled on the supportive, bolstering stare of Morgan.

“I have good news. We are bringing Preston home!” she announced. “To Sweetgrass.”

There was a sudden hush over the table, as though a bomb had been dropped.

“You can’t be serious!” Adele blurted out.

“Why not?” Morgan asked. “It makes perfect sense to bring him home. It’s even recommended by the doctors.”

Hank threw his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair in exasperation. “I should think it’s obvious why not,” he said. “The man can’t speak. He can hardly move!”

“Hank!” interjected Nan, horrified.

Mama June’s head swung toward him, speechless with disbelief.

“Why are you surprised?” Hank argued. “It may not be pretty, but it’s the truth. We can’t be romantic about this.”

“But we can be civil,” Mama June retorted.

“Mary June,” Adele said. “I thought we’d talked about this.”

“That doesn’t mean it is what I decided,” she replied. She could feel her back stiffening against the chair.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t mean to offend,” Adele said in that testy manner that informed she was about to do just that, “but everyone knows that Preston shielded you from financial decisions. You preferred it that way. Frankly, you can’t afford to bring him home. There’ll be medical costs, a decrease in family income and a rise in all of your fixed expenditures. You have to face the facts. You must consolidate and sell your assets.”

“You mean,” Morgan said flatly, “sell Sweetgrass.”

Adele turned from Mama June to look at her nephew, her brow raised at the fact that he’d entered the fray. Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

“Yes,” she replied succinctly. “Sweetgrass is your mother’s greatest asset. And it’s actually a very good time to sell.”

“How lucky for us he decided to have his stroke now,” Morgan replied.

Adele bristled.

“Adele,” Mama June said in an appeal for understanding. “This isn’t just about selling property. This is the family herit
age. Preston has devoted his life to preserving it. Once Sweetgrass is gone, what will happen to us, to the
family?
”

Adele’s face hardened. “The family will simply have to move on.”

Mama June drew back. Her voice trembled with emotion. “I could never sell it out from under him. If the stroke didn’t kill him, that surely would.”

“Hank is right. You’re being romantic. I’m very worried about you and Preston,” Adele replied. “And disappointed in this decision.” She turned again to her nephew. “I think it’s plain irresponsible of Morgan to come home and interfere in what had already been decided by the family.”

Morgan folded his hands on the table, but did not rise to the bait.

Adele’s face tightened. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Mama June, is it so horrible to consider selling?” Nan asked. Her soft voice broke the escalating tension. “You and Daddy have worked hard all your lives. You never spend a penny on yourselves and I can’t remember when you’ve ever taken a vacation. Every dime you earn you put right back into this place. If you sell Sweetgrass, you’ll finally have a chance to take it easy. Really, Mama, won’t you have enough to worry about now just with Daddy? Why do you want to worry about trying to hang on to all this land, too? Let it go. Enjoy life a little.”