Love Mercy (17 page)

“Rett, are you up?” Love called in a low voice.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How do you feel? Would you like some breakfast?”

“I’m okay. I’ll be right there. Give me five minutes.”

“No hurry. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Rett waited until she heard her grandma’s footsteps fade away, then she hissed, “You told Dale where I was?”

“Oh, Rett, I swear it just slipped out.” Lissa’s voice turned whiny in that way that always drove Rett clear up a brick wall. She could hear her best friend take a drag off her cigarette.

“I can’t believe you ratted me out,” Rett said.

“I didn’t say
exactly
where you were. I just told him enough to get him off my front porch. And I didn’t give him your number.”

Rett wasn’t actually surprised. She’d known the minute she took the banjo from behind the seat of Dale’s truck that it was only a matter of time before he realized it was her. It wasn’t like she’d stolen his beloved Vietnam-era Zippo cigarette lighter that he bought at the Arkansas State Fair last year. This was way bigger.

“Quick, tell me what he said. I think my minutes are just about to run out.” She’d have to find a Wal-Mart and use some of her precious money to pay for thirty more minutes. She just couldn’t be without a cell phone.

“I only told him you went to see your grandma on the West Coast.”

“Did he ask about the banjo?”

“Yes, he wanted to know if you took it, except before I could lie and say you didn’t, he said he knew you had it. He’s real pissed, Rett.”

“All you told him is I went to the West Coast?”

“That’s all, I swear. I don’t even remember the name of the town where your grandma lives. I think he believed me, ’cause he just stomped off cussing, sayin’ he’d better f-ing get it back before the tour started.”

Rett smiled to herself. She knew he was freaking out, because he’d gotten a once-in-a-lifetime gig. The Flat Top Onions, a hot new alt country-bluegrass band that was the talk of the circuit—they’d been nominated for a Grammy last year—needed a temporary banjo picker. Their regular banjo guy had gone back to Mississippi to help care for his brother, who was dying of some brain disease. It was Dale’s first full-time paying gig with a successful band. Like most new musicians, to make ends meet, he’d always worked other jobs, teaching banjo or guitar, working retail or busing tables. This was a shot at the big time. And she knew he needed his beloved Gibson prewar banjo. He loved that banjo more than his own mama.

“Well, I just hope he doesn’t talk to my mom. She knows where I am, and I wouldn’t put it past her to tell him.”

“How’d she find out?”

“My grandma called her.”

“That sucks.”

“Whatever. I’ll deal with her later.” Much later, she hoped. She knew that between fighting with Patsy about her pregnancy and arguing with Rett’s second stepdad, Roy, something that had been happening a lot lately, she doubted her mom would have the time to come out here. She’d probably just call and try to fight over the phone. Rett would just not take her calls. Simple as pie.

“I’ll call you when I can buy more minutes,” she told Lissa. “Just don’t say another word. Promise.”

“I swear on my stepmom’s Day-of-the-Dead Rocketbuster boots that I am so totally going to steal someday.”

Rett didn’t believe for a minute that Lissa would be able to keep where Rett was a secret from Dale, but she figured she had a few days lead time if she could just depend on her mom not to tell Dale anything. But Dale had the ability to charm any woman, even old ones like Mom.

Rett pondered for a moment how she could keep that from happening and realized she couldn’t. She’d have to ask her mom not to tell Dale where she was, and Mom would want to know why he wanted to know and why Rett didn’t want him to know. She’d squeeze out of Rett that she and Dale had had a “thing.” Mom could be like one of those persistent animals Rett had seen on one of the shows on
Animal Planet
that took hold of something and didn’t let it go until it totally died. Was it a badger? That’s how Karla would be about finding out who Patsy’s baby daddy was.

So, like writing a killer song or landing a sweet gig, it was a matter of timing. And, like those two things, there wasn’t a whole lot a person could do to change what was bound to happen. Rett was pragmatic about that. It was a word she’d just learned and really liked because she felt it described her perfectly. She pragmatically flew by the seat of her pants.

What she really hoped was that she was left out of the whole dang thing when the crap hit the fan about Patsy and her little brat.

Even as she thought the word, a little voice inside her remarked, That little brat that will be your first niece or nephew. She had to admit, that kind of seemed cool. Aunt Rett. She’d be the awesome aunt, the successful musician who blew into town and bought really sweet presents, then left again before anyone knew what hit them. Patsy and Dale would be old and boring and totally envy her cool new life.

She swung her legs out of bed and tentatively stood up. Her head felt a million times better this morning. Whatever it was she had last night seemed mostly gone. She actually felt kinda hungry. She opened the bedroom door and found Ace lying on the oak floor. If she hadn’t been paying attention, she would have tripped over him.

“Hey, boy, how’re you doing?” She stooped down to stroke his long, wolflike head. He grinned at her and stood up, wagging his butt. “Let’s go see what Grandma Love has cooking in the kitchen.”

FOURTEEN

L
ove stood at the kitchen sink filling the coffee carafe with water and singing to herself. “. . . a little lamb who’s lost in the woods . . .”

“I know that song,” Rett said, startling her.

“Oh,” she said, turning around, sloshing water on the floor.

“I kinda remember my dad singing it to us,” Rett said, hugging herself. Standing in the doorway, she didn’t look much older than twelve in Love’s blue-striped pajamas. Her toes peeked out from the folds of flannel puddled on the kitchen floor. “I never knew its name.”

“‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ Before your daddy sang it to you, your grandpa Cy sang it to your daddy.”

“Cy for Cyrus.”

Love nodded. “That’s right.”

“He died last year.”

Her bluntness surprised Love. “Yes, a year ago November. From lung cancer.” She hesitated, then said, “He never smoked.” She didn’t know why she felt compelled to state that.

“Sorry.” Rett ducked her head and studied the fabric covering her feet.

“You would have liked him. He was . . . he laughed a lot.” Love paused. “He would have loved you.”

Rett looked up, her eyes unreadable.

“Anything you particularly want for breakfast?” Love asked.

Rett pushed up the sleeves of her pajamas. “Whatever. I’m not picky.”

Well, Love thought, turning back to the sink, she’s not the most verbal person. She certainly didn’t take after Cy or Tommy that way. Both of them could have talked the ears off an elephant. She smiled to herself while scooping coffee into the basket. No, Rett wasn’t like Cy or Tommy that way; she was like Love. She’d been told more than once after she finally became friends with someone that she wasn’t the most forthcoming person right off.

“It’s amazing you and Mel have managed to become friends,” Magnolia said once. “I never see y’all just
talk
.”

Love laughed at her verbose friend. “We talk enough.”

She started the coffee, then turned back to her granddaughter. Rett sat down at the yellow dining table, picking up the tennis ball Ace dropped at her feet.

“Ace,” Love said, “let the girl eat her breakfast first. There are banana muffins in the freezer. That okay?”

Rett nodded and tossed the ball across the kitchen floor, Ace bounding happily after it. She played with Ace while the coffee brewed and Love unwrapped the muffins, putting them in the microwave to defrost and heat. In a few minutes, they were buttering muffins and sipping their coffees like an old married couple.

Love felt her heart thrum in her chest. She felt an overwhelming urge to touch Rett, hug her, feel the texture of her hair, her skin, to try to absorb and recapture those lost years. Seeing Rett brought back a sharp memory of bathing her when she was four years old, scrubbing her tender baby back, her fine brown hair bubbling with shampoo. It was the night before Tommy’s funeral. Love was toweling Rett dry, and she remembered her granddaughter shivering with delight from the cold air hitting her wet skin, letting out a happy squeal and running in place. Where was that innocent little four-year-old? Was she buried behind the down-turned eyes of this reserved young woman?

“So,” Love finally said. “Tell me about yourself. It’s been a long time.”

Rett looked up from her half-eaten muffin. “Why?”

Her response took Love by surprise. “What?”

“Why has it been a long time? How come you never came to visit us? How come you never called? Or, like, even sent a postcard?” Her tone was accusing, making Love’s hackles rise.

Love slowly set down her coffee mug. This conversation was happening sooner than she anticipated. She couldn’t help noticing a bit of Karla’s pushiness in Rett’s blunt questions. Her daughter-in-law had always been so sure of herself, so sure she was in the right, no matter what anyone else thought or felt. Why did it surprise Love that Rett was as bold as her mother? She was, after all, as much a Murphy as she was a Johnson.

“It’s complicated,” Love said, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not sure—”

“That I’ll get it? Believe me, I
totally
get how screwed-up families can be.”

Love wasn’t certain how to continue this conversation. Except for the occasional teenager or twentysomething she spoke to at church or served at the café, she didn’t know anyone from this age group. All she knew about this Generation Y or Millennials or whatever they were currently being called by the media was what she read in magazines or saw on television. A lot was made about how they’d never lived in a world without computers, had grown up being told they could do or be anything, that they were more open-minded, less concerned about convention and more self-centered than the baby boomers. A lot of articles lamented that the world was doomed with this generation, that they, and therefore the world, were slip-sliding down a perdition-bound road.

It amused Love to read blanket statements like that. The doomsday predictors didn’t scare her. Anyone who read the least little bit of history knew that every generation said similar things about the next generation. Her parents said that about the baby boomers, and she imagined the people who were adults during the Depression said it about the WWII generation.

“These crazy kids,” she could imagine her grandmother saying about her parents and their friends. “Now that the war is over they want to spend all their time having babies and buying every sort of newfangled appliance and car that rolls down the pike.”

She smiled. As wise old King Solomon once declared, there’s really nothing new under the sun. Comparing the generations would make a good column, though she wasn’t sure what kind of photo would best illustrate it.

“What’s so funny?” Rett asked, frowning.

“I’m sorry. It had nothing to do with you. Sometimes my mind goes off on these tangents, and I completely forget where I am. Used to drive your grandpa Cy crazy.”

Rett’s frown softened. “Yeah, I do that sometimes. Like when I’m thinking about a song that I’m writing.”

Love cocked her head. “You write songs?”

Rett’s face flushed pink. “None have actually been, like, bought or anything. I . . . I mess around.”

“I take photos,” Love said, feeling like she should share something about herself, trying to relieve Rett’s embarrassment. “I have a monthly column for a local magazine. I take a picture, then sort of comment on it. The magazine’s publisher is the father of the doctor who examined you last night.” She put two fingers to her cheek, laughing softly. “That sounds really small town, doesn’t it?”

Rett’s eyes lit up. “You’re published in a magazine? Cool.”

Love lifted one shoulder, trying not to look overly pleased at her granddaughter’s approval. She would have liked to continue this conversational detour, but they had unfinished business that was best taken care of now. “About what happened with our family. Let’s just get that out of the way. I’ll answer your questions flat out, okay?”

Rett nodded, her face serious.

“When Tommy . . . your daddy . . . passed away, your mother and I were both very hurt and very sad and, I guess, looking back now, we both felt cheated. She lost her husband, and I lost my only child.” Love stopped, taking a deep breath. Just saying it out loud was still hard. And she wanted to tread carefully, not make Karla sound horrible. “Instead of being able to comfort each other, I think we both wanted to be mad at someone, so we chose each other. Grief makes people do strange things sometimes. But I did try to make up with her once I got back to California. I sent cards and letters and we even came to visit you once, but—”

“The Disney World trip,” Rett said softly.

That surprised Love. “How do you know about that? You were just a tiny girl.” The remembered humiliation of that visit still caused Love’s blood pressure to rise.

Rett started picking the half-eaten muffin on her plate into little pieces, not meeting Love’s eyes. “When I was eight, I heard Mom talk about it to a friend. Mom said you could visit, then we went to Disney World before you got there. That was totally mean of her.” She looked up at Love. “Why does she hate you so much?”

Love bit the inside of her cheek. Rett’s candid words hurt more than she probably realized. “I guess it boils down to the fact that we both loved Tommy and thought we knew what was best for him, and they weren’t the same thing.”