Lullaby of Love
Authors: Lucy Lacefield
Lullaby of Love
by
Lucy Lacefield
Copyright ©
2013 Lucy Lacefield
All Rights Reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
for
. . . first loves
Contents
The sweetness of his breath whispering past my cheek and ear, as his soft, sure lips warmly grace my skin, makes my stomach feel like a thousand dainty butterflies swirled into flight.
shay
The smell of bacon frying wafts up the stairs. I’ve only been home one day and the feeling of never having left comes over me; it feels like I’m eight again waking to the scents of a devoted mother in the kitchen, lunches being packed with care, a check of the clothing to make sure it’s weather suitable, and a kiss on the forehead as she sees me off.
My mom is as intelligent as she is domestic, though her dusty degree in biology came second to having a family. She had wanted a house filled with children and instead got blessed with,
“The most beautiful gift of an angel.”
Now it was my turn to see how far the degree would take me.
I try to come home every break, but sometimes the backlog of low priority tasks for the department professors gets dumped into the laps of the not-so-unsuspecting graduate students and we find ourselves inventorying labs and ordering last minute supplies, instead of sleeping in until eleven in the secure comfort of our parents’ home, savoring every moment of nearly thought free existence.
It’s my second year in the graduate program at Yale. The university is a lot different than the state university I graduated from in southwest Virginia, a twenty minute drive from home. And for me, it’s every bit the timeless splendor that I would daydream of after having visited it for the first time with my parents. . . the ominous, carved stone buildings that anchor the landscape like museums, with their large lawns sprawled out between them. . . and the trees. . . the mere size of them alone is magical; all of the students seem to especially look forward to spring, with the new, soft, green grass cushioning the blankets of people lazying about in love scattered across the view under these giant canopies of nature. I find my place alone among them and try to study, but like all others, my eyelids eventually close to the warmth of the sunlight and my thoughts float up.
I was raised with all of the love a child could ask for, considering my parents were a little older when they had me.
I had been so longed for that the sweetness of their devotion was encapsulating, and I couldn’t be the luckier for it.
When I think of the things that I could best describe my childhood as, it would be of joy and morals, and I never doubted or took for granted one. Just as in the old term of courting, my father was and still is a gentleman. And to this day, my mother’s eyes continue to sparkle with each simple kindness he shows her. And my mom—she must have been what any new mother-in-law would have wanted for her son, proper and gentle, and quiet in her strength.
My father was the first person she had dated, meeting him just after college. She was a greeter at our church, the little red brick one, a walking distance from our front porch that we still attend today, and he was new to the area, and on the suggestion of his family he decided to join the church to meet other young adults. They married three months later. And the tenderness of how it must have begun seems clear in their love for each other now.
It would seem strange to most people someone my age never having had a boyfriend, not even a dinner date. . . and yet, I could sometimes see them looking at me when I let a moment pass before subtly turning my head their way as to not alarm myself or one of them at the onset of their ogling or curiosity. It was just that I was afraid of them, and it seems they knew to be a little more upright with themselves around me.
It wasn’t that I demanded it, but I don’t think any boy would want to be known for making a conquest of the banner child for kindness and modesty; the girl this charming small community knew as the student food drive organizer and hospice volunteer—and intelligent enough to see it dared to them. And to be honest, I didn’t mind to get to hide behind the veil of safety that this gave me.
At twenty-two and studying laboriously, trying not to define a true competition among other students wielding their intellect and flattery trying to keep the professors’ attentions by it, I find it’s my solace and only focus being a student.
“Shay? Honey, are you up? Breakfast is ready.” The light tapping at the door lulls me from my waking daydream state. I’ve heard mom’s considerate knock by now thousands of times and I’m glad for the familiarity after a challenging start to the semester.
“Sure, Mom, be right down.
Smells wonderful!”
“Hurry, okay?
While it’s warm.” I hear her call back as she descends the stairs.
I roll over on my side to face the sunshine and stay snuggled in for one lingering moment. The giant oak tree outside my sitting window dances in the breeze, and I can feel the soft morning air on my face. Reluctantly I move aside the blankets. I don’t want to keep her waiting too long.
I languidly make my way around my room—everything in its same place as if I’d blink and the door would open with Abby hurrying me along, holding chalk for us to go and draw hopscotch on the sidewalk. She’s been my one true friend since we were five and bonded in kindergarten. Her family’s large, white colonial house is just across the street and looks nearly identical to ours—with the same wrap-around front porch and black shutters on every window. Our breaks coincide most of the time, but she loves living in Raleigh where she’s finishing her degree, and more often than not her parents take a mini-vacation and travel there to see her.
I take my robe from the reading chair by the window and slip it comfortably around, loosely looping the belt. As I pass the mirror I catch a glimpse of my tousled auburn hair and reach for a brush. A couple of strokes and I gather the length into an elastic and make a ponytail that’s presentable.
I make my way downstairs, passing by the large dining room on the right that will be filled with family friends and beautiful food on the holidays. To most, the scale of this house would seem unnecessary for only the three of us, but somehow it always seemed just perfect. . . I knew every creak in the shiny wood floors, and every difficult window to get open, as much as I knew the pattern of our day.
I cross the hall moving through the large sitting room on the left that is at the front of the house and takes up almost an entire side of the first floor. Dad calls it a sitting room, not a family room, and the explanation was that somehow when families came here from England there was a misinterpretation, and long ago a “family” member’s room was actually a
bedroom
. And a bedroom wasn’t referred to as a bedroom, it was a
room
. Shay’s room.
Bathroom was lavatory
. . . I knew Dad would be reading the paper waiting for us to eat together. I creep up on him, walking lightly in my slippers. The top of his head barely seen in the red wingback chair that’s one of a pair facing out over the side garden. . .
yard
,
garden
. I cover my hands over his eyes and he lets his paper lay into his lap and cups them in his.
“Feels like the softness of youth.”
His smile evident through his tone.
“Morning, Dad.” I kiss the top of his head. “Let’s give Mom a hand in the kitchen—I’m monkey hungry.”
“Let’s,” he says, smoothing his paper to fold it back into place.
I can smell the effort of a large breakfast as I get nearer the kitchen and mom humming in her movements.
“Can I help?”
She smiles and passes me a stack of pancakes. “How was your sleep?”
“Good. . . and yours? I heard someone up late last night.” I walk to the refrigerator with the plate of pancakes, balancing them in one hand and reaching in to grab the syrup.
“I had a bit of a headache again, must just be the change of season.” She slides the last pieces of bacon onto a platter. “Will you be going on your hike this morning?”
“Our hike,” I remind her. It took years for her to become accustomed to the thought of trekking through the forest that outlined the town. She’d rather be painting it from memory after passing through it in the car with the windows up and the air conditioner on. “And yes, I’m going. Dad?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
He passes each of us a mug of coffee. “I think your Mother needs to sit this one out. I know it’s our Saturday morning start, but we’ll let her rest today.” He casts mom a soft smile.
The breakfast food was beautiful, and I could feel every morsel of overeating in the gorge of a full stomach—a welcome change from the last seven weeks of hot coffees and cold granola bars served up on the run from my studio apartment, two blocks downhill from campus. I was lucky enough though, I felt, to have the small space to myself on the meager earnings teaching the two undergraduate labs that I was assigned to as part of my curriculum..
Dad and I insist that mom go lie down and we begin to clear the dishes to get ready for our hike.
I make a pot of tea as we are finishing up and pour mom a teacup full and fill a thermos with the rest to take along with us. I put two aspirin on the side of the small saucer and head off to her room.
I carefully walk through the slightly open doorway. She’s fast asleep, but I’m sure I see what appears to be a tear in the corner of her eye. . .
I sit the small cup and saucer softly down on the bedside table, and slowly pull the blanket up higher on her arms and leave quietly for my room.
dane
“Coach was a real asshole today—and I can feel it in my legs.”
I check for the tightness of the white towel around my waist, my skin still damp from the steamy shower in the locker room. The stadium was mostly quiet. The football team wasn’t starting pre-season practice until the end of the week and that gave us runners plenty of time to have full use of the facility, including the services of the masseuse that somehow we seemed less entitled to.
“
Layin’ it on heavy?” Kip sympathizes as he reaches for the disposable paper roller under the massage table and streams a new length over it.
“Sure. You could say that.” I watch and wait for him to be ready for me.
He slaps the table. “Hop on Dane. Let’s see what we can do for you.”
My whole six feet two inches feels as lifeless and hard as the table I’m laying on.
“Where shall we start?” he asks.
I take my right arm out from underneath my resting head and reach around to press my index finger into my thigh. “
Here.”
The tightening in my upper leg hadn’t let up since practice. Just standing in the shower took it out of me. I hadn’t complained to Coach Lewis, with him being new this year I didn’t dare show weakness. I’ve been running for the university for three years and I didn’t want to spend every practice turning it into a trial and getting the
smackdown of punishment I’ve seen laid onto some of the slackers that party hard and are just milking it to the end, for all of the glory that comes with being a Yale athlete.
