Carolina Mist (10 page)

Tomorrow, she would put her clothes in the dresser drawers. She would go to the hardware store and buy the tools she would need to begin her work on the house. And she would find Aunt Leila’s cookbooks and look up the recipe for scones. She began to drift into sleep, opening her eyes once, thinking she’d heard something overhead. Then she recalled the window she’d opened.

In the morning
, she told herself as she faded into a deep slumber.
I’ll go up and close it in the morning.

11

“
A
bby?” a voice called up the steps.

“I’m in the back room, Naomi,” Abby called back.

“Wow, you’re ambitious.” Naomi looked up at Abby, who was perched on the ladder she’d bought just that morning.

“Not so much ambitious as desperate.” Abby grimaced, turning to sit on one of the top steps. “You wouldn’t believe how much money I’ll save by doing this myself.”

“Yes, I would.” Naomi laughed. “Here, I brought you some coffee and a slice of zucchini bread. Miz Matthews
said you’ve been hard at work since early this morning, so I thought you could use a break.”

“Thanks.” Abby smiled, touched by the thoughtfulness of her new friend.

Friend. How long has it been since
I
had a friend?
Abby mused. She enjoyed the prospect.

“Now, tell me what you’re going to do in here.” Naomi cleared a spot on the old four-poster bed, which Abby had moved to the center of the room, and sat on the edge, her coffee mug perched on her knee.

“Well, once I get the rest of the paper stripped, I think I’ll just paint the woodwork and the walls.” Abby looked around the room as she spoke, envisioning the changes she would make.

“You sure did get a lot done in a few short days,” Naomi noted.

“Well, the paper is so old and the glue so dry, it practically jumps off the walls.” Abby moved the old drapes she’d taken down from the windows and flung onto a chair and sat down, nibbling on the zucchini bread. “This is great bread, Naomi.”

“We had a bumper crop of zucchini last year.” She grinned. “The freezer’s full of zucchini bread, zucchini muffins, stewed zucchini, zucchini quiche
…
you name it, we’ve got it. I took five loaves out of the freezer this morning to send down to the church for their Christmas bazaar tomorrow night, and you’d never know anything was missing.”

“Are we that close to Christmas?” Abby frowned.

“A few weeks. Something wrong?” Naomi asked.

“I just haven’t much enjoyed the holiday these past few years,” Abby noted, recalling Christmases when she’d sat alone in her apartment. The city of Philadelphia had always dressed gaily for the season, though none of its spirit had ever seemed to permeate the little home Abby had made for herself, where no carols played and no tree had been decorated. She had stopped acknowledging the holiday the year her parents died and, alone since that time, had simply ignored it.

“Well, maybe this year we can change that.” Naomi smile
d. “Folks in Primrose pul
l out all the stops this time of year.”

“Momma, Sam needs to use the bathroom,” a child’s voice called from the bottom of the steps.

“Oh, of course he does.” Nao
mi sighed. “Abby, can we…
?”

“Second door to the right.” Abby nodded.

“Bring him on up, Meredy,” Naomi instructed her daughter. “I’ll be right back, Abby,” she said, then told the tiny girl who entered the room tentatively, “Don’t you touch anything, Meredy, and don’t get in Miz McKenna’s way.”

The biggest, roundest, darkest eyes Abby’d ever seen darted around the room before settling
on
Abby’s face.

“What’re you doing, Miz McKenna?” she asked without a trace of shyness.

“I’m taking off the old wallpaper.” Abby smiled. “And you can call me Abby.”

“My momma says it’s impolite to call grown-ups by their first name,” Meredy said as she watched Abby climb the ladder.

“Well, maybe your momma will make an exception,” Abby told her, “since we’re neighbors.”

“I’ll have to ask,” the child replied seriously. “Are you going to have to clean up this mess all by yourself?”

“I certainly am.” Abby nodded, wondering what to say next. She’d had no experience with small children and felt uncomfortable left in the company of one so small and unfamiliar. “What was your name?”

“Meredith Dare Hunter,
” the child told her matter-of-
factly, “but everyone calls me Meredy. My middle name is Dare, ’cause that was my momma’s name before she married my daddy. Momma’s Lumbee.”

“What?” a confused Abby asked.

“Momma’s
Lumbee,
”
Meredy repeated.

“What’s Lumbee?”

“Lumbee Indian, of course,” the child explained with politely disguised exasperation.

“Oh.” Abby digested this information as she resumed scraping long, dry pieces of wallpaper which flopped in clumps to the floor. “I’m sorry, Meredy. I’m not familiar with the Lumbee Indians.”

“That’s ’cause you’re from up north,” Meredy reasoned forgivingly. “Lumbee’s mostly in North Carolina.”

“Meredy, I told you not to bother Miz McKenna,” Naomi said, returning with the little boy in her arms.

“I’m not bothering her,” Meredy informed her mother, “and she said I could call her Abby, since we’re neighbors.”

“Meredy was just starting to tell me about the Lumbee Indians,” Abby told Naomi. “I wasn’t familiar with the name.”

“Most folks outside North Carolina aren’t.” Naomi shrugged. “We’re a relatively small tribe, don’t live on reservations, and are pretty well integrated into the mainstream. We never were involved in a war with the government and never entered any treaties with Uncle Sam, so we never got much attention. Except from folks studying the Lost Colony.”

“The Lost Colony? You mean, as in Roanoke?” Abby asked as another chunk of paper flopped onto the floor.

“Right.” Naomi nodded as she stood her son on the floor and tucked his shirt in. “Some folks think that that English settlement was not lost at all. Some think they met up with the Lumbee and moved inland, intermarried with members of the tribe.”

“Really?” Abby stopped her work and peered down at Naomi. “I never heard that before.”

“And you’re not likely to.” Naomi grinned. “At least, not from anyone who’s not Lumbee. There’s a great romance to the legend, you know, the first English settlement in America vanishing without a trace. Look at all the tourist dollars that would be lost each year at the reenactment. And history books would have to be rewritten.”

“Do you believe it?” Abby asked.

“Well, let me just say that an awful lot of Lumbee have English surnames. Like Lowry, Oxendine, Dare.”

“Like Virginia Dare? She was, what, the first English
child bo
rn
on American soil?” Abby sought to recall her elementary school history lessons.

“That’s right,” Naomi told her. “Dare was my maiden name.”

“Sounds pretty convincing to me.” Abby nodded, sending a hunk of dried paper to join the others at the base of the ladder.

“Names can be borrowed.” Naomi frowned. “I think it’s more telling that early explorers reported meeting up with some fair-skinned, English-speaking Indians along the Lumber River, inland and south a bit from here.
I’m full-
blooded Lumbee, but I’ve got blue eyes and naturally curly hair—not your typical Native American characteristics. Good grief, would you look at the time. Meredy, get your jacket, baby. We have to get you to school,” Naomi instructed her daughter, who was quietly piling the discarded wallpaper into a neat stack on the floor. “Afternoon session starts at twelve-thirty.”

“Thanks for the snack,” Abby told her. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I guess I should go down and make some lunch for Belle.”

“I made a sandwich for her before I came up,” Naomi said. “I figured you’d probably lost track of time.”

“I had, and I thank you.” Abby paused in her work, silently blessing Naomi’s thoughtfulness.

“Gotta run.” Naomi herded both son and daughter toward the door.

“Miz Mc…
Abby.” Meredy stopped in the hallway. “Would you come to my Christmas play?”

“Meredy, I’m sure Abby has better things to do on Christmas Eve,” Naomi began.

“Not at all.” Abby smiled at the child, who waited expectantly for a reply. “I’d love to go. And I appreciate the invitation, Meredy.”

“I’m going to be an angel,” Meredy told her. “Momma’s making my costume.”

“A serious bit of miscasting on someone’s part,” Naomi muttered as she followed her daughter to the first floor.

Abby swung the ladder toward a virgin turf of wall and began to loosen the paper, amusing herself by recalling the last Christmas pageant she herself had been in. She was seven years old, and one of the live sheep brought in for the occasion had butted Tommy Picard off the stage. She paused, thinking she heard the sound of a ringing telephone from the entry hall below.

After climbing off the ladder, she hastened down the steps. By the time she reached the bottom step, Belle had picked it up in the kitchen.

“Why, Alexander, what a surprise,” she heard Belle coo delightedly. “Why, yes, dear, I am quite well
…
”

Abby’s heart turned over at the sound of his name.

“You are? How wonderful…
why,
I’d love that, dear…”

This is perfect,
Abby thought as she regained the momentary lapse of her senses.
Belle will tell him that I’m here. He’ll understand the situation, maybe take Belle to live with him.
I know as soon as he knows, he’
ll
…

“Oh, well, no, dear. Leila can’t come to
the phone right now. She’s…
napping.”

Abby stopped dead in her tracks just outside the kitchen door, certain she’d not heard correctly. She stepped quietly into the room and leaned against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Certainly, dear. I’ll tell her you were asking for her.” Belle turned, sensing Abby’s presence. Flushing slightly, she ignored the eavesdropper. “And have you heard from your sister?”

Abby waited out the conversation, and when Belle had hung up, she repeated wryly, “Leila is
napping?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Belle sniffed with indignation and pulled her sweater more closely around her shoulders. “Really, Abigail, I’d have thought you’d have better manners than to listen in on other people’s conversations.”

“Bell
e, why didn’t you tell him the truth?” Abby asked pointedly.

“I don’t want to worry him.” Belle turned her back and
busied herself rinsing out her teacup. “That boy has enough on his mind. Just starting a new job, moving to a new ci
ty…
”

“Where’d he move to?”

“Hampton, Virginia.”

“That’s only a few hours away,” Abby thought aloud. “Will he be coming to visit?”

“Sooner or later,” Belle replied, still not facing Abby, “I expect he will.”

“Don’t you think he’ll think something is odd, if Leila is ‘napping’ the entire time he’s here?”

“I will tell him, Abigail.” Belle’s voice dropped to a low whisper of resignation.

“I can’t believe you haven’t told him before this.” Abby shook her head. “Why didn’t you tell him when Leila died?”

“Because he’d never have permitted me to stay here alone, Abigail.” Belle turned slowly, the pain of being forced to speak the obvious filling every line of her face. “And I have no
place else to go.”

She brushed past Abby without meeting her eyes as she shuffled, shoulders slumped, from the room.

12

“
A
bigail, I simply cannot thank you enough for taking me down to the church tonight.” Belle beamed as Abby helped her off with her worn winter coat. “I cannot recall when I enjoyed an evening
more. Why, the last time I
went to one of those little Christmas pageants, my Josie was in it. So many, many years ago
…
” She shook her head at the thought of how much time had passed.

“Well, I had a good time, too.” Abby hung their coats in the front hall closet. “And
wasn’t Meredy absolutely adora
ble in her little white organdy dress and those little gold wings?”

“She was the cutest one on the stage.” Belle nodded vehemently. “Just like I told her, she couldn’t have been one bit cuter.”

“What the choir lacked in heavenly voices, they certainly made up for in enthusiasm.” Abby chuckled, the wide-eyed little faces from which emitted the most uncelestial notes still fresh in her mind.

“Oh my, yes. They were off-key, weren’t they?” Belle tucked her black wool gloves into her purse. “You know, I couldn’t help but think of one time when our Josie was right up there on that same stage. Singing ‘Away in a Manger’ to beat the band. If I live to be a hundred—and at the rate I’m going, that’s a distinct possibility—I will still see that earnest little face peering out to the audience”—the memory flickered across her face, softening the lines for just a second—“looking for her daddy and me in the crowd. Josie never had much of a singing voice, but she sure was loud. Must have heard her clear out to the Outer Banks.”

Abby followed Belle back to the morning room and turned on the lamp as the old woman lowered herself into her usual chair. Belle reached for the remote control, absentmindedly turning it over and over in her hands yet not activating the television, as if she had slipped off somewhere.

“Belle?” Abby gently touched her shoulder.

“Ever wonder where it all goes, Abigail?” Belle’s eyes were as clear and as wide as a child’s pondering the flight of a bird for the first time.

“Where what goes, Belle?” Abby seated herself on the edge of the hassock, near Belle’s chair.

“All the little bits and pieces of your life. All the minutes of all the hours, all the days and all the years. Sometimes, in my mind, I can see so much of it so clearly. Just as clear as the pictures on that television.” Belle spoke softly but distinctly, as if being drawn to some far-off place. “Granger’s face when he asked me to be his bride, his eyes
so intense, deep and warm as the good brown earth after a summer rain. Some nights, when I close my eyes, I can still see that face, clear as I see yours. And sometimes I can even hear his laughter
…
”

Belle raised a hand to her face, lightly brushing her lips with her finger tips. Her voice was low, like a voice in a confessional.

“I still miss him in my bed at night. All these years he’s been gone, I still reach for him in the night. And sometimes, when it storms,
I
hear Josie calling me from the foot of the bed. Always scared of thunder, Josie was. She’d stand there till one of us woke up and patted the blankets, then she’d jump in between us and snuggle
down and go out like a light…
”

Abby listened, pondering the ability of the human mind to transcend time. Had she herself not heard voices from her own past, glimpsed within her own mind her own mother’s face as she kissed Abby good-bye that last time they had been together?

Swallowing hard, a tight wedge of compassion blocking her throat and stinging her eyes, Abby studied the face of the woman who sat before her. This tiny woman who had loved so greatly over the course of her many years, who had been so dearly loved, was now alone with only memories of family and friends to sustain her, dependent upon a stranger for even the most basic necessities of her existence. And who knew how long Abby could be here for her?

“And then, of course, there’s Leila,” Belle said.

“You must miss her terribly.”

“Well, yes, but, of course, she’s never really left us,” Belle told her in hushed tones.

“They say those we love are always with us.” Abby reached out a hand to pat Belle’s arm.

“Never more true than with Leila, dear.” Belle sighed.

“So many times since I’ve been here, I’ve caught the scent of lavender,” Abby confessed, “and sometimes it takes me off guard. I almost think that she’s there. I find myself turning to look for her.”

“You haven’t seen her, have you?” Belle leaned forward, her brow folding into an instant crease.

“Of course not.” Abby giggled at the thought.

Belle raised an eyebrow, as if to speak. Instead, she merely stared at Abby for a long moment or two.

“I think I’ll go up to bed,” Belle told her, and she placed the remote control on the table, and the moment passed as if it had not been. “I don’t believe I much feel like watching television, after all.”

“I’ll be up in few minutes.” Abby braced her hands against her thighs and pushed herself up from her low seat on the hassock.

“Good night, then, Abigail.”

“Belle
…
”
Abby called to her as she reached the doorway and turned slowly.
“Belle, would you like me to take you to the Christmas service in the morning?”

“Why, that would be a delight, Abigail.” The faint hall light veiled Belle’s face, but her pleasure was evident in her sincere response. “Thank you. I would very much like that. I would indeed.”

“It’s at nine o’clock, Naomi said.”

“What lovely surprises this day has held,” Belle said as she turned toward the hall. She stopped momentarily and looked over her shoulder. “Thank you, Abigail. And Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Belle.”

Abby turned off the light and stood in the darkness, the only sound in the house being Belle’s light footfall on the steps. After walking into the front room to turn off the lights, she stopped to straighten a candle on the mantel. The smell of the pine boughs she’d cut and draped around the brass candle holders evoked memories of other Christmases when trees had reached upward to graze the ceiling of the Chicago brownstone and the piles of gaily wrapped presents reached end to end across the living room. Her mother had insisted on a touch of the holiday in every room, and Abby smiled to herself as she recalled Charlotte’s zeal as she decked every window with greens.

“Oh, Mother, what you must think of me,” she sighed as she looked around the room.

The pine branches had been scattered on the mantel only for the sake of Meredy, who had so proudly presented Abby with a chain of red and green circles to hang on the tree. When she was told Abby and Belle would have no tree, Meredy’s tiny face had clouded with confusion. Did Abby not want her carefully crafted garland?

It was then that Abby realized that she could not, this year, ignore the holiday as she had grown accustomed to doing. She invited Meredy to help cut branches from the old pine in the backyard and place them on the mantel, where they twined the colorful paper chain around them. Not quite as good as having a tree, Meredy had told her solemnly, but better than nothing at all.

Abby turned off the light and moved into the hallway, stopping to check that the latch on the front door was secure. She started toward the steps, then paused before going into the dining room.

She and Belle had taken all their meals every day in the morning room. What a treat it might be for Belle, who clearly missed the formality of years gone by, to have Christmas dinner in a more traditional setting. Abby turned on the overhead light and looked around the room, which obviously had not been used in ages.

The low, wide silver candle holders that stood at the center of the table were badly tarnished, as were the serving pieces displayed on the old mahogany sideboard. A built-in closet with double glass doors at one end of the room held row after row of fine crystal and stacks of porcelain plates, all coated with a layer of gritty dust. The dust was thicker on the furniture, and she whispered an apology to Aunt Leila as she gathered the darkened silver pieces in her arms and headed toward the kitchen.

Barely three hours later, all the silver as well as the dark wood furniture had been polished until it gleamed. The crystal, carefully washed and dried along with Aunt Leila’s best china, glowed from behind the glass doors. Abby
replaced the candle holders on the table and stood back to admire her work.

Something was not right.

She opened drawers in the sideboard and rummaged until she found a creamy colored damask cloth, wrapped in tissue paper into which had been tucked sprigs of lavender. Abby shook out the cloth, then draped it over the table and returned the candlesticks.

Still not right.

A holiday table called for a centerpiece, she told herself as she scanned the room for something suitable. A long, low silver bowl, freshly polished, all but waved to her from the small server near the side window. She carried it back into the kitchen and plunked it onto the counter, where she stacked it high with the bright red apples she had bought with the thought of baking a pie for Christmas dinner. She’d think of something else for tomorrow’s dessert.

Almost perfect,
Abby noted as she placed the bowl of shiny fruit in the center of the dining-room table,
but not quite.
She went back into the kitchen to see if she could scrounge up something else to add the finishing touch.

The moon, wide and full, lit the yard behind the house, sending a long, fat shadow of the pine tree to bisect the back porch.

“Of course,” she said aloud, grabbing a jacket and the key from a hook just inside the back door. She unlocked the door and stepped into the first cool, dark hours of Christmas morning.

By the light of the moon, Abby gathered pine cones and stacked them on the back steps. As the pile began to grow larger, she went back into the house to fetch a basket. On her way out the door, she grabbed a pair of scissors, which she used to snip some branches of boxwood from the ancient hedge. She cut some long, still-green arms of ivy from the side of the porch, then piled it all into the basket.

The night was so still, the far reaches of the sky so boundless, that she stood for a moment looking upward, her face tilted toward the endless procession of stars so high
above. The serenity of the night held her, motionless, for what seemed to be forever. In those few moments, without words, she said a prayer of thanksgiving for her many blessings. For the first time in ten years, there were people in her life she cared about, people who, in turn, genuinely cared about her. It was all she had, but it was more than she’d had in a decade, and she was grateful.

When the spell was broken by the sound of the wind shaking a loose shutter, she turned back to the house, filled with the first true sense of goodwill toward her fellow men she had known in a very long time.