On Blue Falls Pond (4 page)

Carrying the tote and berry pails, Glory walked just ahead of Granny and Scott as they passed the front of the church.

Granny said, “I believe I’ll stop for a minute.”

Glory turned around. Granny was standing beside the cemetery fence. “Okay,” Glory said, and started toward the gate.

“You and Scott go on ahead. I have some things to discuss with your granddad.”

Glory didn’t know which alarmed her more, being alone with Scott or her grandmother thinking she could converse with the dead.

It must have shown on her face because Granny was quick to add, “I ain’t crazy. It’s what keeps troubles from weighing you down—sharing them with someone. Always did run things past Sam.” She winked at Glory. “Now he can’t disagree with my conclusions.”

“We’ll just wait here.” Glory cast a furtive look at Scott, who was in the end sniffles of the tantrum Granny had accurately predicted when they put the boat away. They hadn’t been able to leave the meadow for ten minutes after; he howled, stiff-legged, reacting to Granny’s soothing touches as if they were hot pokers against his skin. Getting him moving back toward home had been an exercise in patience. But Granny had done it, one hard-fought step at a time. Now he was moving along fairly well. Glory wondered why Gran insisted on upsetting the apple cart.

Granny seemed to be sizing up the distance from Pap’s headstone and the path, as if gauging whether Glory would be able to overhear. Finally, she said, “All right.”

Glory and Scott stood at the front of the little church as Granny walked over to Pap’s grave. Glory continued to hear Scott’s quivering breaths and sniffles, but didn’t dare do or say anything for fear she’d set him off again.

Granny laid her hand on Pap’s headstone, keeping her back to the gate. Glory saw Granny’s hands gesture and her head move as she spoke, as if she were sitting across the table from him.

After a few minutes, Granny returned, a look of serene composure on her face. Glory hadn’t thought of Granny as tense, but there was a definite change in her as she stepped out of the cemetery.

Glory had not returned to Andrew’s grave since the funeral. After seeing Granny’s renewed calm, Glory wondered if a visit to his graveside would offer a new perspective on her own life.

Instead of calm rising from that thought, dread crept over her skin like a damp humid night in August.

Scott was taking a nap on a quilt on the floor of Granny’s living room. The afternoon temperature had continued to climb, and Granny’s house didn’t have air-conditioning; the floor was the coolest place. And for some unthinkable reason, Granny had decided to fry chicken for dinner.

“Really, Gran, let’s just do tuna salad or something,” Glory said, then leaned against the kitchen counter and took a long swig of sweet tea. She hadn’t realized until now how much she’d missed sweet tea while living up north. She rested the dewy cold glass against the side of her neck and welcomed the shiver it gave her.

“I won’t have your first dinner back home come from a can.” Granny turned from the stove to deliver one of her “don’t argue with me” looks. The entire end of her nose was a flour blotch—definitely counteracting the bad-ass look she was trying to deliver.

Glory’s heart nearly burst with love. Tula Baker was probably the only woman in this century who would fry chicken in ninety-degree heat just because her granddaughter had come home. Laughing, Glory stepped closer and wiped the spot from Gran’s nose. “In that case, what can I do to help?”

Granny took a swipe at her nose, as if shooing a bothersome fly, replacing the flour Glory had just brushed away. “Go out and pick the ripe tomatoes from the garden.” Then, as Glory headed for the door, Granny added, “You do remember how to tell a ripe ’un?”

Glory shoved her hands on her hips. “No need to get nasty just ’cause I’m tidy and you can’t keep the flour off your face. I hear some of the best cooks are slobs in the kitchen—have to have people like me to clean up after them.”

Granny dipped her fingers in the flour and flipped them at Glory, who ducked the puff of white and ran out the door giggling.

She muttered as she entered the garden, “Do I remember how to tell a ripe tomato? Really.”

She could feel taut red skin under her fingertips just thinking about it. Twenty years of working with Granny in the garden had left her with the touch for things ripe. That oddly phrased thought made her giggle to herself. The laughter started somewhere beneath her breastbone and bubbled right up through her lips. The late-afternoon sun was warm on her head, she smelled dinner cooking through the open kitchen window, and her toes dug into the warm, rich earth beneath her feet. She would never have guessed she’d feel this good ever again, especially in Tennessee.

“Never heard a woman laugh like that at tomatoes.” A man’s voice came from behind her. “They must have a great stand-up routine.”

After this morning Eric hesitated saying anything to Glory at all, had nearly bypassed her, taking the opportunity to bundle Scott out of the house while she was occupied outside. But she looked so childlike crouched in the garden, and her laugh had sounded so light that he hadn’t been able to help himself.

Glory turned her head, her smile steady, her auburn hair tossed over her shoulder, fiery in the sunlight. It was a relief that her smile remained when she looked at him. She was beautiful in a way he hadn’t noticed this morning. They had each been too unprepared for the other, too unsteady in the moment of surprise.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Me, I’ve always found cucumbers have the best one-liners.”
That’s it, keep the mood light.
He wanted to prolong that delightful sparkle in her eye.

She straightened up, lifting the basketful of tomatoes with her. “Then it’s obvious that you’re not very familiar with Granny’s tomatoes. A couple of them have actually appeared in Vegas.” She started in his direction. “Of course, the span of their careers is limited by the availability of good, reliable refrigeration.”

At that he chuckled, as much in relief as at her joke. He needed Tula. He didn’t want to have to avoid this place because of Glory. And in this moment, he felt just the opposite might happen.

As she stepped out of the garden, he put his hand out to take the laden basket. It looked as if she’d hand it over, then she hesitated and pulled it close to her waist. She glanced down at the ground, and when she looked back at him all of the laughter had faded from her eyes.

She said, “I owe you an apology . . . actually, two.”

He started to wave her comment away, then paused. “Why two?”

“First, for my little scene this morning. I don’t know why—”

“Hey, you were caught off guard.” He lifted a shoulder. “Plus you were already running on adrenaline when you flew into the kitchen. Actually, it’s nice to see someone worry about Tula. She’s always doing for everyone else.”

“Yes, she is.” Glory paused. “And as long as we’re on the subject”—she glanced at the back door of the house—“and Gran’s out of earshot, I really think you should reconsider having her sit for Scott. I don’t know how much she’s told you about her condition—”

Dread gripped his chest. “Condition? She’s ill? Is that why you’re back?”

“Her eyesight. She has macul—”

“Oh, that.” He blew out a breath. “You had me scared there for a minute. Of course she’s told me about her ‘condition,’ but you’d better not let
her
hear you call it that.”

“Granny downplays the seriousness of it. But—”

“I’ve done my research. I know full well there might come a time when she has to bow to . . . limitations. We’ve talked about it. She’s assured me that she’ll let me know if it becomes a problem.”

Glory barked out a sharp cackle. “You don’t really think she’ll ever admit it, do you?”

He looked at her, tensed with annoyance. “Yes,” he said stiffly. “I do. She would never risk Scott’s safety by keeping him if she wasn’t fit.”

She didn’t reply, just stood there looking at him like he didn’t have a brain in his head.

“What was the other one?” he said gruffly, more challenge in his voice than he’d intended.

She blinked her incredibly green eyes and appeared confused.

“The other apology. You said you owed me two.” He hated sounding like an ass. Uncertainly about Scott’s future was making him jump to the offensive much too quickly when it came to people questioning his parenting.

“Never mind.” She stepped around him. “I’ve reconsidered.”

He waited a few seconds before he followed her to the house. His previous concern that there might be some attraction between him and Glory to complicate his already complicated situation was blown completely out of the water. It seemed they were destined for a bumpy road every time they were within shouting distance of one another.

As he walked across the lawn, he wondered just how long she was planning on staying.

Hesitating at the screen door to the kitchen, he watched her washing the tomatoes in the sink. Her jerky movements told him just how aggravated she was. He himself felt like he had grasshoppers in his stomach. The reality was, Glory’s presence in town could present a lot more trouble than awkward social interchanges.

“’Evenin’ Eric,” Tula called. She hadn’t turned from the stove to look at him, how had she known he was here?

He pulled open the screen and stepped inside. “’Evenin’, Tula.”

Tula did turn to look at him then. “Somethin’ wrong?”

He shook his head.

“Go on, then, beer’s in the fridge like always. Supper’ll be a bit yet.”

Eric saw Glory’s shoulders tense. Then she looked at Tula with her jaw set in clear irritation.

Tula grinned. “Eric and Scott always have supper with me on Thursdays.”

“Oh.” Glory wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Eric took in her skittering less-than-enthusiastic glance in his direction. He cleared his throat and didn’t make a move toward his routine beer. “I thought maybe I’d just take Scott on home tonight—Glory being home and all.” Glory’s pale shock of this morning might be gone, but that last look had told him he still wasn’t welcome across the supper table.

“Don’t talk foolish,” Tula said in her take-no-prisoners voice. “Get Glory a beer too; she looks like she could use one.”

Glory said, “I don’t need a beer.”

Eric pulled one out of the fridge and opened it. He took a long swig, keeping Glory in his sight over the bottle. She licked her lips, looking at the cold bottle like a starved urchin peering in a bakery window.

Tula flipped chicken in the sizzling oil with one hand and pointed to the refrigerator with the other. “She always was the most contrary child ever born. Give her a beer. And you two go out and sit on the porch where it ain’t so hot. Scott’ll nap for at least ’nother half hour. I’ll call you when supper’s on.”

Eric got the beer, opened it, and handed it to Glory, who snatched it away from his grasp.

“Seems I got that contrary streak honest,” she mumbled as she headed toward the front porch.

He followed behind, wondering what on earth they were going to talk about for thirty minutes. At the rate he’d been going, he’d have her so worked up she’d need to breathe into a paper bag by the time Tula called them back inside.

Eric perched himself on the porch railing. Glory sat on the swing and began pushing herself back and forth with one foot, her other leg tucked beneath her. Contrary to her earlier dismissal of the beer, she quickly consumed over half the bottle.

After several minutes, just when Eric thought maybe they’d actually pass the time until dinner in silence, Glory said, “Does your wife work late on Thursdays or something?” She didn’t look at him, instead concentrated on fingering the fraying label on her beer bottle.

He took a swig of his own before he answered. “No. We’re divorced. I have Scott on Thursday nights.”

“Oh.”

Something confrontational lurked in that single word, as if she now saw through his diabolical plan.

“What?”

She lifted a shoulder, still not looking at him.

“There’s obviously something you want to say to me. Spit it out,” he said.

She let go of a long breath. “I just don’t like to see Granny’s good and giving nature taken advantage of.” Then she raised her eyes and looked square at him for the first time since she’d left him in the garden.

He ground his teeth together to keep from letting loose his frustration. She couldn’t know his situation. She obviously didn’t know the arrangement he had with Tula—and how Tula had come to depend upon it as much as he did. Maybe Tula, in her pride, didn’t want Glory to know.

He got up and walked down the porch steps without saying anything.

Chapter Four

G
LORY RETURNED TO
the kitchen before Gran came out to call them for dinner. She didn’t want to have to explain why Eric wasn’t still on the porch with her. She paused in the kitchen doorway. Granny was mashing potatoes and humming a country tune. Her movements were sure and steady; she certainly didn’t appear like a woman with any visual impairment. Maybe she wasn’t covering up a worsening condition as Glory had feared.

That thought brought about a serious—and surprising—case of mixed emotions. The last thing she wanted was for Gran to lose her sight. Glory had come home reluctantly but with the full intention of staying if Granny needed her. Dawson was a hotbed of pain, but she’d face it for Granny. But if Gran really was fine and wanted Glory out from underfoot . . . where would she go?

As she rolled these questions in her mind she realized that, beginning with Granny’s call, this was the first time in months that Glory had felt a sense of purpose. If Granny didn’t
need
her . . .

She grabbed on to the positives, pushing away the unexpected hint of panic that teased the edges of her senses. She told herself she would be glad to get out of Tennessee without venturing inside the Dawson town limits; without having to pass where her house used to stand, where her life used to be. However, the mere thought of leaving the security of Granny’s warm home left her with a chunk of ice in her stomach.

Just then Granny looked over her shoulder. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in. Where’s Eric?”

Glory avoided answering that question. “I came in to help. I’ll set the table.” She moved toward the cabinet that held Granny’s Blue Willow Ware.

“Let’s eat out on the picnic table. It’s too dang hot in here.” Granny dabbed the perspiration on her forehead with a paper towel. “There’s a cloth in the pantry there . . . got roosters on it.”

“I thought Pap made you get rid of that one.” Glory’s grandfather had always hated that tablecloth; said it was impossible for him to eat chicken—which was his favorite—with those roosters staring at him with their accusing eyes. Said it gave him the whim-whams. The last time Glory remembered Granny using it, Pap had gotten up with a huff and taken his plate to eat on the front porch—even though it had been the middle of February.

Granny chuckled. “Wasn’t that the most ridiculous thing, a grown man run off from his own table by pichures of chickens.” She shook her head. “And Sam raised on a farm like he was!”

Glory smiled at the memory as she retrieved the tablecloth. Then she carried it and a stack of plates into the backyard. As she descended the back steps, she saw Eric rummaging around in his Explorer. He was leaning far inside the passenger door. She caught herself staring and quickly looked away; he had what Granny would call a “fine backside.” And Glory felt extraordinarily rude in noticing.

A slight breeze began to move, bringing relief from both the closeness of the air and the burning of Glory’s cheeks—even though she tried to deny that they were burning. She busied herself with readying the table and lighting the citronella candles, even though the light breeze held promise of keeping early-evening mosquitoes at bay. Just as she unfurled the tablecloth, the wind kicked up a notch, flipping the far end of the cloth back on itself. Before she got her end situated and moved to the other side, Eric was there, spreading the cloth evenly over the table. She took the plates and set them at the corners to hold it in place, which left her standing beside Eric.

Neither of them said a word. Glory sensed a standoff of sorts. He didn’t move away. His nearness somehow changed the air around her; she could actually “feel” him without touching at all. She fought the urge to step away, to shake that sensation off her skin.

Well, one of us has to say something.
“Thank you,” she said flatly, without looking at him.

“No problem,” he replied in an equally distant tone. Then he finally moved, picking up the small black cardboard box he’d set on the picnic table bench.

Glory stood in place until she heard the screen door swing closed. “Guess I really ruffled his feathers,” she muttered. But she wasn’t sorry. He had asked her to speak her mind, and she had. She hadn’t been hateful about it; she’d simply stated her case. It seemed that every divorced dad in the county counted on Granny to take care of their kids. Cousin Charlie and his brood were bad enough.

She returned to the house but stopped on the stoop just outside the kitchen door. She held her breath as she looked through the screen.

Eric and Granny stood face-to-face, and he was handing the black box to her. Granny opened it and looked inside, then put a hand on her chest and looked up at him. The gratitude and excitement Glory saw in her grandmother’s eyes squeezed her heart, making it ache with love.

Then, without a word, Granny shook her head and pushed the box back toward him.

He laughed then, taking Granny’s wrists in his hands. He kissed her on the forehead before he reached inside the box and pulled out a pair of black-framed sunglasses and settled them on her nose. Glory recognized them as expensive Oakleys—a sharp contrast to the old, cheapie sunglasses Granny had worn to the raspberry bramble today.

Finally, manners gained the upper hand and Glory stopped acting like a peeping Tom, opening the screen door and stepping inside the hot kitchen.

Granny turned and tilted her nose haughtily. “Do I look like a movie star?”

Glory smiled. “Very glamorous.”

“Eric says they’ll be better for my eyes.”

Glory glanced at Eric; his gaze skittered away.

Granny said, “They’re polar lenses.”

“Polarized,” Glory offered.

“That’s what I said.” Then Granny lowered her voice. “I’m sure they were costly. Much too costly.” She cast a reproachful look toward Eric.

“I told you, Tula, I got a deal,” Eric said dismissively, then quickly headed toward the living room. “I’d better wake sleepyhead or I’ll never get him to bed tonight.”

“He’s always ‘getting deals’ for me,” Granny confided quietly when he was out of the room. “Got plenty of troubles of his own, don’t know why he frets ’bout me.” She sighed as if the answer to that particular mystery would forever elude her. Then she brightened and turned her head from side to side for Glory to inspect. “See how they curve ’round? Keeps the light out of the corners.”

“I’m sure they’ll be a big improvement.” And for some reason the fact that Eric was the one to think of it rankled just a bit.
That’s because it makes you feel like a heel for your remarks on the porch.

She shook off the thought and started to fill glasses with ice, while Granny took up the chicken.

Eric paused and looked at his sleeping son. Scott lay on Tula’s living room floor. He was on his back, with his arms thrown over his head, the end of the quilt Tula had made for him clutched tightly in one chubby fist. Scott had had a name for that quilt, “bink,” but it had been weeks since Eric had heard him use it. Eric’s heart felt as if a steel band were tightening around it. If it hadn’t happened so often in the past weeks, he might have thought he was having a heart attack. But now he knew it was a symptom of love—and fear—not disease.

Up until recently, Eric had been a stranger to fear.

Scott’s cheeks were pink from the heat, the curve of his face still gently rounded with baby fat. In moments like these Eric could almost fool himself into believing Scott was just like any other toddler. And he was tempted to bury himself in that belief, just as Jill had done. But there was too much at stake to dwell in the comfortable land of make-believe.

Long naps were becoming rare. In fact, Scott’s sleep patterns had been increasingly erratic—another sign, according to all of the books Eric had been reading on autism. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath. God, he was beginning to hate that word, as if it alone were responsible for robbing him of his son.

He sighed, trying to loosen the knot in his gut. It wouldn’t do at all if he couldn’t eat the dinner Tula had roasted herself in the kitchen preparing. He closed his eyes. Three deep breaths. Three long exhalations. Deep breath. Exhale. His heart began to feel less constricted; he willed his stomach to follow suit.

When he opened his eyes again, Glory was standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, watching. The expression in her eyes was unreadable.

Without a word, she turned and went back into the kitchen.

Tula wore her new sunglasses as they ate dinner at the picnic table; it did Eric’s heart good to see his gift so appreciated. But then, Tula appreciated everything, even the smallest, seemingly insignificant nuances of life.

When Eric’s own parents had moved to Gatlinburg several years ago, Tula had taken Eric into her heart, just as if he’d been one of her own grandchildren. She’d accepted Scott when Eric and Jill had been desperate—all of their other babysitters, with the exception of Jill’s mother, Gail, had refused to deal with Scott’s disruptive and erratic behavior. And even Grandma Gail, after Eric had offered to match her part-time wage at the Dixie Bee Flower Shop, admitted that she couldn’t cope with Scott more than two days a week. So, as far as Eric was concerned, Tula deserved far more than he was able to give.

She would have rocketed into orbit if she knew what he’d paid for those sunglasses. But he’d done his research; those were the best option for Tula’s problem. Truth be told, he’d have paid twice as much to ease her discomfort. He didn’t want to contemplate what might happen if Tula’s eyesight did begin to fail—and not only because of Scott.

Eric immersed himself in appreciating the moment. Scott was being relatively cooperative, Tula was beaming in her sunglasses, the food was excellent and the weather agreeable. The only fly in the ointment was Glory’s distant reserve. And that actually had benefits of its own. No small talk, no unpleasant subjects.

Tula had made Scott the only food he was currently eating: a peanut butter and banana sandwich, white bread, crust trimmed, cut into four perfect triangles. It was served on a paper napkin, not a plate. The napkin had to be square with the edge of the table. His Sippy Cup of milk positioned just off the upper-right-hand corner of the napkin. Any variation of this resulted in refusal to eat and a crying fit that took an hour to abate.

Since the divorce, Eric’s life had been a steady, monotonous grind of work and worry—and Scott wasn’t the only cause for the latter. Eric really looked forward to Thursday nights with Tula. He glanced at Glory over his iced tea glass. Her reappearance was forcing him to think about things he’d kicked under the bed eighteen months ago. Things his conscience would rather not reexamine.

Trying to sound offhand, he asked, “So, Glory, are you back here for good?” He took another bite of fried chicken to emphasize the casual nature of the question.

Glory’s gaze cut to Tula. “Yes.”

The look the two women exchanged—even with Tula wearing sunglasses—made Eric suddenly feel as if he were balancing on a beehive.

Tula huffed. “Glory’s got the notion in her head that I shouldn’t live alone.” Her lips pressed together the way she did when she was particularly peeved. “I shouldn’t have call—”

“I was coming home anyway.” Although the retort was quick, the tone in Glory’s voice was less than convincing.

“Bullhonkey! Don’t think you can fool me, missy. You had no ideas a’tall about comin’ back here ’til I called you.” Tula was bristling now. “I won’t have it. I’m fine. And if the day comes that I ain’t—I won’t be having you come home and babysit me!”

Glory’s back visibly stiffened. She drew herself up for the fight, just the way he’d seen Tula do more times than he could count.

“I told you that I’d been thinking about leaving St. Paul. The winter—”

“Had nothin’ to do with you comin’ back here. You explained it all to me afore you left—you cain’t live here now.” She paused and appeared to rein in her temper. “I was just scairt is all. Jumped the gun; shoulda waited. Ever’thing is fine; my eyes ain’t no worse than before.”

Eric shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t need to worry about Glory thinking his question held ulterior motives with all of this going on. Still, he felt responsible for the confrontation. He chanced a comment. “I’ve been reading up on MD; Tula could get along fine indefinitely. It might not progress.”

The fiery look Glory shot him could have melted a hole in plastic. Lucky for him he was made of steel. He said, “I’m just saying there’s no need to get worked up over this right now.”

“And I’m saying that’s
not
why I came back,” Glory directed more toward him than Tula. “I’m here because it’s time to come home.”

Time to come home?
The haunted look in Glory’s eyes and her nervous posture said otherwise.

And Eric was afraid he just might know why.

Eric shot further holes in Glory’s assumption that he was taking advantage of her grandmother when he got up from the table and started doing the dishes. He settled Scott in the kitchen with his plastic ship and filled the sink with water; Granny didn’t own a dishwasher.

Glory was further astounded when Granny made herself a cup of tea, leaving the dirty kitchen to Eric.

She paused and smiled at Glory. “It’s our way; I cook, he scrubs.”

After a moment, Glory said, “Since I didn’t cook, guess I clean too.”

“Reckon that’s fair. Eric could use the help. He doesn’t get another beer until he’s finished, and it’s hotter ’n blazes in here.” She took her cup and headed toward her front porch swing. “Got to hurry or I’ll miss the fireflies comin’ up out of the grass.”

“You two have quite the routine.” Glory was slightly ashamed of the jealous edge in her voice. Luckily, Granny didn’t seem to notice and kept going. But, out of the corner of her eye, Glory caught Eric pause as he scraped chicken bones into the trash and look at her.

She ignored him, pulling a ponytail holder from her pocket and tying her hair up off her neck. Without another word to him, she shuttled the rest of the dirty dishes in from the backyard.

By the time she was folding the tablecloth, he had a stack of dishes ready to be dried. She picked up a towel. “You do pretty good work for a man.”