The Improper Life Of Bezellia Grove Part 5

The evening paper arrived just as I was coming home from school, but I had already heard the news. It was all my friends had talked about for the past two weeks, ever since Miss Polly Clements, the school's headmistress, had a.s.sembled the junior cla.s.s for a special meeting in the auditorium to announce a unique and surely life-altering experience.

We had all been invited to Paris. Yes, Paris, France. The amba.s.sador's wife was apparently the school's most prestigious alum, and we were going to paint and study for three weeks under her watchful eye. We would embrace Notre Dame at daybreak and capture the warm, golden sunlight dancing across the Seine at dusk. We would study Monet and Manet, Matisse and Seurat, all the while absorbing everything French, from the Brie to the croissants.

After the meeting, Miss Clements pulled me aside. She told me that my painting had depth and pa.s.sion, and that my French was authentic and ripe with emotion. (And although Monsieur Gadoue never cared for my mother and her feeble attempts to greet him in French, he was quick to say that my accent was pure and honest. He even admitted, in a perfect Parisian dialect, that Mary Margaret Hunt butchered the language like a side of beef.) Miss Clements said she hoped I would take advantage of this unique opportunity, and then she handed me a stack of papers outlining the details of the trip.

I rushed home to tell my parents. For once, I thought, mother and daughter would be in total agreement about what was best for Bezellia Grove. But when Mother discovered that Mrs. Hunt had been slated as the trip's official chaperone, she threw my father a look, a gnashing, bloodshot stare. And Father, well, he simply glanced at the wall, too afraid or maybe too ashamed to look either of us directly in the eye.

"No," Mother said abruptly, breaking the silence that had quickly permeated the room. "Sister will not be going to Paris," and then she slammed her fist down on top of the papers that now appeared wilted and worn under her hand. She quickly turned her chair toward me and caught the disappointment clouding my eyes. She seemed almost startled that her words had delivered such a devastating punch. And even though she left no room for argument, she added in an uncharacteristically kind and empathetic tone, "Maybe later, maybe you can study abroad when you're in college. It will mean so much more then anyway-when you're older and all."

I knew she expected me to sit there quietly and nod my head in agreement, to accept her decision without question-deferential, respectful submission, nothing more. But that was not possible.

"Are you kidding?" I shrieked, this time not willing to surrender without a fight, no matter how futile the outcome was destined to be. "I have to go. I've taken all these stupid French cla.s.ses for you ... because you thought I should speak French just like Mrs. Kennedy! I even spent two whole days teaching you how to greet all those sn.o.bby friends of yours at that stupid ball. d.a.m.n it! I read Voltaire ... in French ... twice.

"And G.o.d only knows how many stupid apples and pears and purple irises I've painted, hoping that just one of them would be pretty enough for you. Miss Clements tells me my brushstrokes are gifted. Did you hear me? Gifted! I have to go to Paris! Miss Clements is counting on me. I am going!"

My voice was loud and demanding. It was a voice until this very moment I had never dared use when addressing my mother or my father, let alone both at the same time. And they just sat at the kitchen table looking oddly bewildered, as if they were staring at some crazed hippie high on marijuana or maybe tripping on some LSD.

"I'm sorry, Sister, but this is an impossible situation," my mother finally snapped, regaining her composure and ending my charge as quickly as it had begun. Then she got up from the table, tossed the newspaper in my father's lap, and walked away.

"Quel dommage," my friends sighed when I explained that I preferred to stay home for the summer. "Quel dommage," they repeated in obvious disbelief when I said that June was a stifling time to be in Paris. "Quel dommage," they said and then ran off giggling and chattering about French-kissing a French man under a French bridge.

"Screw it," I whispered under my breath, in English.

I knew good and well why I was not going to Paris, and for the first time in my life I found myself hating my father as much as my mother. So when the newspaper came that afternoon announcing my cla.s.smates' "life-altering" trip abroad, I took a big red Magic Marker and wrote a message for my father right across the headline, thanking him for this missed opportunity to finally step foot out of the state of Tennessee.

Merci, Papa merveilleux. Je vous remercie pour ceci?

Bezellia That night I dreamed of the first Bezellia, clinging to her husband's dying body, his blood soaking her clothes, the rain washing her hair. I'm not sure why she came to me like that, but she did from time to time, never with any warning or notice. The next morning at the breakfast table I announced that I would not be staying at Grove Hill for the summer. Instead, I would be spending my vacation at Old Hickory Lake, with my grand-pere and grand-mere. Furthermore, I would be traveling alone. Caring for Adelaide and Baby Stella was not going to be my responsibility this year, whether Mother vacationed in Minnesota or not. Then I stood silent before my mother and waited for her to say no, to reject my plan, to put her foot down with such force that she would rattle the house.

But she simply nodded her head in agreement. And without thinking, I flung my arms around her neck and hugged her so tightly she gasped in surprise. Then I ran up to my room, fell across my bed, and threw my arms over my head like an athlete who had just won the race or a teenage girl who had finally gotten her way. Maybe this trip to Paris was going to be a life-altering experience after all.

The sun came up particularly bright and clear on that first day of June. My trunk was already packed and waiting for me by the front door. I pulled on some jeans cut off just above my knees and a short-sleeved cotton blouse, an ensemble I knew my mother, already dressed in a crisp blue linen suit, would not approve for traveling, not even to the lake. That afternoon she inspected me as she always did, slowly, from head to toe, and then sighed and said, "Fine. I'll call Nathaniel."

My father had ducked out of the house earlier than usual, surely feeling guilty that his poorly disguised affection for Mrs. Hunt had cost his daughter a trip abroad. It was just as well, because I was in no mood to act as though I was going to miss him. And even though I still felt rather sorry for myself, for the first time, I felt even sadder for my mother. She had apparently married a cheat and a coward, and I wasn't really sure which was worse.

Mother stood quietly outside the front door with nothing but a cold cup of coffee in her hand. Maizelle and Adelaide were lined up beside her, each one waiting her turn to hug me good-bye. I think, of the three, my mother was going to miss me the most. She seemed almost afraid to be left at Grove Hill, to be left in charge of a household she really didn't know anymore. For a moment, I wondered if I should stay. But almost as if Nathaniel sensed my hesitation, he revved the engine and yelled through the open car window that it was time to be on our way. Mother, Maizelle, and Adelaide walked to the edge of the porch and stood there together waving good-bye until the car pulled out of the drive. I looked at them and smiled and then fell back against the seat and closed my eyes.

The trip to Mount Juliet was less than an hour, but we were traveling much farther than that, back through time somewhere, exiting onto Route 171, fifty years or more before we left Grove Hill. A gas station on the far corner of the intersection looked abandoned except for an old man dressed in blue coveralls stacking cans of Quaker State motor oil in the front window. Seeing how there were no other cars in sight, I figured it might take the man the rest of his life to sell all that oil.

I rolled down the window and smelled the wildflowers and the cows that were grazing in the pastures. Mother was right. The air was cleaner and sweeter here, and when I exhaled, every bit of anger and frustration that had been stored in my body floated into the backseat and was sucked right out the rear window.

"There's nothing like that, is there, Miss Bezellia?" Nathaniel said as he drew in a full breath and held it in his lungs. He scratched the back of his head with his right hand, keeping his left firmly on the steering wheel. Nathaniel's hair was thinning and turning whiter, and the tiny bare spot where the angel had kissed him so long ago had grown a little bigger. For a minute, I was on my way to elementary school again, sitting as I always did right behind Nathaniel and hoping Tommy Blanton was still waiting for me behind the coatrack. I couldn't help but wonder if Nathaniel would still be driving me around in my mother's Cadillac when my hair started turning white like his.

Nathaniel and I hadn't talked about Samuel since that day I left Cornelia's house wearing the gold bracelet his son had given me, the bracelet I still wore when I slept at night. Maizelle had told me that Samuel was doing very well at Tennessee State University but was still hoping for a scholarship to Grambling State. He had been elected freshman cla.s.s president and had a perfect A average. That scholarship seemed sure to come soon, and he was thinking he might be a lawyer or a doctor or maybe even a preacher. A cow mooed in the distance as if he understood what I was thinking.

"Miss Bezellia ... Miss Bezellia ... hey, are you there?" Nathaniel called, instantly placing me right back on the warm leather seat in my mother's Cadillac.

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

"Heavens, child, I said all sorts of things. But most recent I was saying that I bet your grandparents are mighty excited about you spending the summer with them."

"Yeah, I guess so." But to be honest, I wasn't really sure. Nana said Pop hadn't been feeling too good since Easter. She told me on the telephone that my visit would either perk his spirits right up or put him in his grave, only time would tell. I wasn't exactly sure what she meant by that, but Mother told me to ignore it. My grandmother had always had a twisted way of saying things, she said. I'd just been too young to understand that till now. Maybe, she added, it was a good thing I was spending the summer with them after all.

Nathaniel honked the horn three or four times in rapid succession as he pulled into the narrow gravel driveway in front of my grandparents' house. A small wooden sign staked low in the ground had two words burned into it-THE MORGANS. Pop had never seen much sense in cutting a drive big enough to hold anything more than his red Ford truck, so Nathaniel steered the car onto the gra.s.s.

The day's laundry, including my grandmother's bras and panties, was hanging from a line she had strung along the front porch. My grandparents had an old washing machine in the bas.e.m.e.nt but saw no need in owning a dryer as long as the wind was sure to blow. Nana came barreling out the front door, untying her ap.r.o.n as she hustled toward the car. Her thick gray hair was falling free from a loosely wrapped bun low on the back of her head, and two or three wooden clothespins were still clipped to the sleeve of her dress.

Pop, thinner than a stick and not much taller than I was now, came wobbling behind her, using a cane to steady himself. In the wake of my grandmother's force, he suddenly looked very fragile and small.

"Lord, child, get out of that dang car and give me a hug. Oh, Lord, Macon, look how this child has growed. I bet she's gonna be taller than the two of us combined," Nana said, pushing me back from her arms so she could get a good, full look. "Now don't go and get too tall, hon, or you gonna scare them boys off."

Cornelia had always said my legs were one of my best features, but now I found myself turning my ankles in toward the ground so I could shorten my body by an inch or two. Pop was standing beside me, holding my elbow for added security.

"Hey, how ya doing?" I asked as I drew my grandfather into my arms.

"Hanging in there, sweetie. Hanging in," he repeated, sounding lonesome and tired. "My, my, you are something to look at, just like your mother." He squeezed me again before turning his attention to Nathaniel. "Nathaniel, sir," my grandfather said, "sure is good to see you too. Been too long, old man."

But before Nathaniel could answer, Nana interrupted. "How's that daughter of mine treating you these days? Judging by all that white hair you got, I'd say not so good."

"No, ma'am. Mrs. Grove is doing good, doing real good," Nathaniel said, and he smiled at my grandmother and reached out to shake Pop's hand. Mother was doing better. He wasn't lying about that. But in all the years I'd known him, Nathaniel had never said one unkind word about either my mother or my father, and he wasn't going to start now. "I've got Miss Bezellia's bags here in the car. Where would you like me to put them, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Miss Bezellia," my grandmother repeated in an exaggerated, drawn-out tone. "Just put Miss Bezellia's bags in the front bedroom, Nathaniel. You know the way." She pointed at the house. "Cain't you stay and have something to eat with us? Already got the pork chops fried, and the corn bread's browning in the oven."

"I'd love to, ma'am, but I best be getting back to Nashville. Took me a bit longer than usual to get here today, and Mrs. Grove's needing me to get the summer cushions out on the porch furniture this evening. She's expecting a couple of ladies from the country club tomorrow, and she's wanting everything to look extra special. It's been a while ..." He paused. "Well, it's been a while since Mrs. Grove has done any outdoor entertaining what with the cold winter and all. Like she always says, there's no point in putting your best foot forward till the daffodils have done come and gone."

Nana just rolled her eyes and tossed Nathaniel a quick good-bye. Then she grabbed my grandfather's forearm and started dragging him back toward the house. I looked at Nathaniel and smiled. He stepped toward me, and in a very soft voice, to make certain that my grandmother would not hear what he was saying, made me promise to call if I needed anything or just found myself wanting to come home sooner than expected. He said it as though he thought I might need him. I said I would and then hugged him real tight. Nathaniel and I had kept our distance for too long, and it felt good to wrap my arms around his big, strong back. Standing next to Nathaniel was about the safest place on earth.

My grandparents were waiting for me in front of their little white, wood-frame house. Nana had patiently watched our good-bye from the porch, but now she was waving her right arm, signaling for me to move it along. "Food's on the table, and it's getting cold," she hollered and then reached for the handle on the screen door and disappeared inside the house.

The table was set with nothing more than a checked vinyl cloth and some worn, white china. The food was served in a variety of mixing bowls, and a stack of white paper napkins was left piled right in front of my plate. "Oh, Nana, this looks so good," I said, trying to be gracious, picking up a piece of fried okra between my thumb and forefinger, and popping it in my mouth. "Mmm. This is even better than Maizelle's. But I swear if you tell her, I'll have to call you a liar."

"Well, sweetie, that's quite something. Did you hear that, Macon? I can fry okra better than Elizabeth's colored woman."

"Nana!" I said, noticeably surprised.

"What, honeybee?" she asked, sounding both shocked and innocent in return. "We all know the colored can fry anything better than anybody. Ain't that right, Macon?"

"I've always said that your nana is the best cook G.o.d ever put on this earth," Pop answered obediently, and then he licked his fingers clean, leaving his paper napkin untouched by his plate and my grandmother's words simmering in the air.

After the dishes were washed and left to dry on the counter, the three of us took our places on the back porch, where we watched the moon's reflection as it poured itself across the lake. We sat in flimsy old folding chairs Nana had bought at the Kmart at least ten or fifteen years ago. Wherever a strap had broken, she had mended it with a piece of gray duct tape that stuck to your legs, especially when the air was heavy and thick, like it was tonight. I wondered if my mother had sat on chairs just like these. Heck, I wondered if she had sat on these very chairs, judging by the amount of tape holding them together. Maybe that was why Mother liked her wicker furniture with the big, thick cushions so much. Maybe she got tired of her legs sticking to this old tape.

Pop lit his cigar and blew smoke rings into the black night sky. He said he'd been studying the clouds since daybreak, and as best as he could tell, now looking at the stars, nice weather was going to last all week long. He said he planned it that way just for me. Nana said my grandfather knew no more about the weather than that d.a.m.n fool they paid to look into the future on the Channel Four evening news. Then she glanced at her watch and let out a howl.

"Oh, my Lord, it's after midnight, Macon. We got to get to bed or we're gonna be worth nothing tomorrow." And as if we were singing in a church choir, the three of us stood in unison and said good night.

My grandparents slept in a small bedroom next to the only bathroom in the house, at the end of a short, narrow hallway. I slept in the other bedroom, the one that had belonged to my mother. And even though my eyes were tired and heavy, I forced myself to stay awake long enough to soak in the few remaining details of her childhood still scattered about the room.

A dark wooden plaque with a picture of Jesus glued in the middle was hanging on the wall by the switch plate. A signature down in the right-hand corner confirmed it was hers, although I could never imagine her doing crafts of any kind. Nana said Mother had made it at Vacation Bible School. She said she had even burned the edges of the picture with a match to make it look ancient or something. She said my mother used to love to go to church when she was a little girl, rededicating her life to Jesus every chance she got. Mother rarely went to church anymore, unless she was parading a new Easter hat.

On the old oak dresser was a baby's silver drinking cup, dull and tarnished from years of neglect, surely a gift from some generous distant relative or a dear well-heeled friend, as I'd never known my grandmother to buy anything this nice or expensive. I held it in my hands, trying to imagine my mother's tiny fingers wrapped around the very same cup. It was so pretty, surely my mother had meant to take this with her.

Nana said she had kept everything in this room exactly the way it was the day my mother left home, the day she taped a note to the door explaining that there was nothing left in this town for her except beaten-down dreams and broken hearts. Nana didn't say it quite like that, but that's what I imagined Mother meant to write.

When I was small, I'd thought this room was strange, like some kind of memorial to a fallen soldier. I figured Nana was afraid that if she put anything away she might forget one precious memory after another until they were all gone forever. Now I wasn't so sure, but finally I closed my eyes, knowing that it would all be the same in the morning.

chapter seven.

Pop was already down at the corner market buying some fresh minnows and a gallon of gasoline so we could go fishing later out on the lake. I heard his truck rolling over the gravel just after the sun came up and knew where he was headed without anyone bothering to tell me. Nana was in the kitchen cooking. I could smell the bacon frying on the stove.

She hollered from the kitchen door, asking if I wanted a cup of coffee. Nathaniel always said drinking coffee before you were good and grown would stunt your growth. But Nana said it would make you smart. She said she gave it to my mother as soon as she was big enough to hold a cup. And when I walked into the kitchen, my grandmother was standing by her worn metal percolator with an empty mug in her hand, the words ROCK CITY now barely visible on the dull white porcelain. Nana and Pop had gone to Chattanooga seven or eight years ago, the first trip she said they'd taken since Mother left home. She said it wasn't much of trip, but she always drank her coffee out of that mug.

"I guess this explains Mother's love for her morning coffee," I said, thinking my grandmother would be pleased that she had affected her daughter in such a habitual kind of way. "Nathaniel always takes Mother two cups before she gets out of bed. Mother says she just can't face the day without it."

"Before she gets out of bed? No fooling. Sounds like a spoilt princess to me. Lord, sometimes it's hard for me to believe that child is mine," Nana puffed, the word princess leaving a familiar and unsettling ring in my ears. "She didn't always think she was better than everybody else. Big city done gone to her head. Hardly acts like she even knows who we are anymore. h.e.l.l, that girl never once appreciated what she did have." Nana was suddenly spewing all sorts of foul, nasty words about her only daughter, sounding like an old, leaky pipe that had finally burst, flooding the room with anger and disappointment. She stomped out of the kitchen muttering something about needing to have her bath before Macon got home.

Sometimes I used to wonder if I was adopted. Cornelia said most kids do that at one time or another. She'd read that in Seventeen. For a time, I was certain that my real mother was a sweet, quiet woman with a kind smile who loved to work in her garden and greet me after school with a shower of hugs and kisses and questions about my day. Now seeing my grandmother, dressed in her worn-out chenille housecoat and dirty terry-cloth slippers, with pin curls clipped against her head, I wondered if my own mother had ever shared the same dream.

I sucked a tiny bit of the coffee over the rim of the mug and let it set in my mouth, but even doctored with milk and sugar, it was too strong and bitter. Nana said I'd come to like it if I kept at it. But as soon as I heard the water running in the tub, I poured the coffee down the drain.

From the open kitchen window, I could see Pop's dilapidated green tractor still sitting in the lake. After the engine blew a few years ago, he just rolled it right down into the water. He said that a nice tasty fish would love to make a bed under that John Deere. I used to think it looked wonderful out there in the lake, half of it sticking straight up like some kind of crazy artist's sculpture, the other half mysteriously hidden below the surface. Now it looked like nothing but a piece of junk that desperately needed to be hauled away.

"Bezellia, hey, honey, is that you?" I knew that voice without even looking to see who was calling my name. Mrs. Clara Scott had lived next door to my grandparents, well, since I could remember. I believe she may have been the kindest, sweetest woman I ever knew. And whenever I spent any time with Mrs. Scott, I swear the sun even shone a little brighter.

She had spied me from her own kitchen window and was practically falling out the small opening above the sink, contorting her body to get a better look, her large bosom pinched against the windowsill. The Scotts lived next door in the only brick house on this side of the lake. Mr. Scott worked at a bank down in Nashville and made the hour-long drive to the city and then back home again every single day. Mother never could understand why they chose to live so far from town, but Mrs. Scott simply said this lake was the most beautiful place on earth. Mother couldn't help but wonder where all on earth she had been.

The Scotts' only daughter, Megan, was a year older than me and one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen. She was every bit as pretty as those models in the magazines, and Cornelia always figured she could have gone to New York City and modeled professionally except that Megan couldn't say or hear a single word. During the week she went to the Lebanon School for the Deaf and the Blind, where she learned to talk with her hands. Nana said the real reason the Scotts lived out in the country, and not down in Nashville, was so they could hide their misfortune from the rest of the world.

As I stepped onto the brick walk that led to the Scotts' front door, the loud roar of a riding mower drew my attention back to my grandparents' yard. I turned around so hurriedly that I lost my footing and almost landed in the bed of bright red geraniums that were planted near the front steps. I expected to see Pop on top of his new John Deere, maybe taking it for a quick spin so I could admire it, ooh and aah over it. But there on top of my grandfather's tractor sat a boy about my age. He was wearing a navy blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. A bright green ball cap covered his head, but his arms and legs were already a golden tan. He tipped his cap in my direction and then went about mowing the gra.s.s.

"Oh, my Lord, Bezellia, look at you. Oh my, I cannot believe that's you," Mrs. Scott shouted, forcing her small, almost childlike voice to be heard over the lawn mower. She pulled me into the entry hall and folded her thick, warm arms around me. Then she pushed me back, like my grandmother had, to get another good, long look. "You are so grown. Oh my, you are such a beautiful young woman. Looking more like your mother every day. Oh, my Lord. Get in this house and tell me what is going on with you." No one had ever told me that I looked like my mother, until yesterday. Now I'd heard it twice and was surprised how much I liked it.

"Oh, how I wish Megan was here to see you," Mrs. Scott continued, hardly pausing to take a breath. "She is going to be sick when she finds out that you are here. We didn't know you were coming till just the other day."

"Oh," I said in a slightly wilted tone. "I really wanted to see her. Where'd she go?"

"Lord, that girl has gone to California for the summer."

"Really?" I asked, obviously surprised. Suddenly it seemed very unfair that Megan's parents would let her travel clear across the country and she not being able to speak one single word while my parents wouldn't let me go to Paris, and I spoke the whole d.a.m.n language-with an honest and authentic accent! I wondered how you said quel dommage with your hands.

"Yep, she just left day before yesterday. She's staying with my sister down in some place called Marina del Rey and won't be back till the middle of August. She's learning to surf. Can you imagine that? She is just going to be sick when she hears you're here and she's there. Come on in and sit down and tell me what's going on with you."

Mrs. Scott put her arm around my waist and led me into a pleasant, sunny room with a large picture window. Beneath it was a long yellow sofa that reminded me of a big stick of b.u.t.ter with matching yellow lamps framing either end. The Scotts were definitely, as my grandmother would say, "highfalutin city people," even if their address indicated otherwise. We sat side by side in the middle of the sofa, and Mrs. Scott laughed out loud as she repositioned the pillows behind her, admitting that her newly found pa.s.sion for needlepoint might be becoming something of a hazard.

I told her that I, too, had done my fair share of needlepointing lately, and then I continued from there, spilling my story in tedious detail. Mrs. Scott sat patiently next to me, staring intently into my eyes, at least acting as though she was listening to every syllable spoken. I wondered if most mothers were this attentive or if she was such a good listener because she had to work extra hard to understand Megan.

I told her about my cla.s.smates' life-altering trip to Paris and mine to Old Hickory Lake. I told her about Adelaide and Baby Stella and all the other blue-eyed dolls that demanded my sister's attention. I told her about Mother going to Minnesota every summer, and about Mrs. Hunt sitting on our front porch-first with my mother, then with my father. I knew my mother would die if she knew all the secrets I was sharing. But I didn't care. I just kept talking, except about Samuel. I kept Samuel to myself.

Mrs. Scott offered me a bowl of homemade banana pudding, the kind that's full of Nilla wafers and fresh bananas, the kind she said can help soothe an aching, troubled heart. I had two helpings while I flipped through the photo alb.u.m of the Scotts' family trip to Destin. The three of them looked so happy standing on the beach with their feet buried in the sand like one of those families you'd expect to see on a picture postcard inviting you to come and vacation on Florida's sandy, white beaches. They sure didn't look like they were trying to hide any kind of misfortune.

As I turned the last page, I realized that the lawn mower had stopped.

"Mrs. Scott," I asked, still holding the alb.u.m in my hands, "who's that boy mowing my grandparents' yard?"

"Oh, Lord, isn't he a doll?"

"I can't really tell from here. Just wondering who my grandfather would trust with his new John Deere."

"Oh, believe me, Bezellia, he is precious. Megan just loves him. I mean like a brother and all. And he is just as good as they come. He is so sweet to her. He's even learned to sign enough words that the two of them can carry on a conversation." Cornelia would say that kind of sensitivity in a man is a rare and wonderful gift and should not be overlooked. I knew that's what she'd say.

"Rutherford. Rutherford Semple," Mrs. Scott continued. "But he hates Rutherford, so we all call him Ruddy. His daddy runs a small farm on the other side of Old Cove Road. Lived up here all his life. Lord, your mama surely must know him. They might have gone to school together. Anyway, Ruddy's mama takes in sewing. She's the one who put all these pillows together for me. They don't have much, but they're good people. Real good church people."

"How long has he been working for Pop?"

"Oh, my goodness. I guess it's been ever since your granddaddy had that big heart attack. When was that? Two, three years ago now? Lord, has it been that long since I've seen you? Anyway, he's been doing it ever since then," Mrs. Scott said and paused for a moment. "Kinda thought I would have seen your mama up here at some point. But I know she's real busy with all her volunteer obligations. Your grandmother tells me that she's a very important woman in town."

I smiled, knowing that mother would be so pleased to know that someone still thought that she was important.

"But you ought to go and meet him," Mrs. Scott suggested. "It would be nice for you to know someone your own age way out here, particularly since Megan is gone for the summer. In fact, you better get going. Go introduce yourself. I've kept you long enough now."

Mrs. Scott scooted me right out the front door, of course not before my promise to come for dinner one night soon when Mr. Scott would be home. He would love to see me too, she said.

"Go on, girl, before your granddaddy pays him and he gets gone." Mrs. Scott gently laughed, kindly urging me in the right direction. She stood in the doorway with a smile on her face, watching my every step, making sure I stopped to introduce myself to the cute boy in the bright green ball cap. I was almost running to my grandparents' house, even though I had this odd feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might be cheating on Samuel by the time I got there, cheating on a boy I hadn't even talked to in almost two years.

The riding mower was already parked under the aluminum carport. It was still ticking and pinging, trying to cool its engine in the late morning heat. I slowed down in case Ruddy happened to be looking, not wanting to appear too eager or obvious. I caught my breath and pushed my hair behind my ears and then stepped onto the front porch. But as I reached for the screen door, it suddenly swung toward me, almost knocking me to the ground. And in that moment, as I teetered on one foot, it seemed that all those thoughts about Samuel I'd been carrying around for so long were knocked to the back of my heart, just far enough to make room for one more boy.

"Oh, man, I didn't see you there. Sorry about that."

"It's a screen door," I said and grinned.

"I'm real sorry. Just wasn't paying attention, I guess. You okay?" Ruddy asked, standing right there in front of me with his ball cap in his hand but trying to look anywhere except at me. He scooted toward the edge of the porch, and I wondered if he was attempting to stage his escape.

"You must be Rutherford Semple," I said, calling him by his full name. Cornelia said it was very alluring when a woman called a man by his full, G.o.d-given name. But this Rutherford tightened his eyes, letting me know he didn't care for that much.

"I am. But I'd just as soon you call me Ruddy."

"Sure thing, Ruddy."

"And you must be the granddaughter I keep hearing so much about," he said, now staring down at his work boots. "I knew you was coming. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan been talking 'bout you for weeks."

"I guess I am. And I guess you're the boy I've been hearing about, the one my grandfather trusts with his new John Deere."

"Yeah, guess so. But it ain't exactly new. He bought it used from a man on the other side of the cove."