On Blue Falls Pond (6 page)

Dawson was off the well-beaten tourist path, so it hadn’t experienced the proliferation of gift and trinket shops, motels and pancake houses, condos and time shares that catered to those passing through to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. And even though she’d run from the place, Glory was suddenly glad of its constancy. Having lived in several places, she could see it so clearly; urban people, in their quest for a rural experience, had brought with them all of the congestion and growth of suburbia—the very thing they were running from. Dawson remained an island of independence. The town council had debated for years over the advisability of attracting tourism.

Granny had often said that if the tourists came in—she was getting out. Glory had thought it tough talk; after all, Granny had lived in Cold Springs Hollow her entire life. But the reality was, if there was a steady stream of hikers parking on the road and parading back to Blue Falls Pond, the hollow wouldn’t be the same.

She prayed for Granny’s sake it wouldn’t come to that. She couldn’t see Granny living anywhere else on God’s green earth. Granny—who might someday have trouble seeing the rainbow in the spray at Blue Falls, who might very soon have a hole in her sight that would affect so much of what she loved.

As Glory drove the streets thinking of Granny’s visual clock ticking away, she passed the Dixie Bee Flower Shop and got an idea. She parked the car and went inside.

No one was at the counter, so she browsed the displays as she waited. Plenty of grandkids came to Granny with fistfuls of wildflowers, but a real flower delivery . . . Glory couldn’t recall Granny getting a single one. Gran’s own garden was filled with day lilies and snapdragons, so those wouldn’t do. It had to be special.

Roses? Everyone sent roses. She wanted something that said, Tula Baker.

“May I help you?”

Glory had been so deep in thought, the voice startled her. She turned from a refrigerator case and looked at the woman behind the counter. She recognized Mrs. Landry, Jill Wilson’s mother and Scott’s grandmother. Mrs. Landry was an older version of her daughters—willowy, fair, classic wholesome beauty. Jill’s younger sister Jennifer had been in Glory’s class—prom queen as a matter of fact.

“I’m looking for something original, for a home delivery.” Glory wasn’t really ready for a trip down memory lane; with any luck at all, Mrs. Landry wouldn’t remember her.

There was a chilly edge to the woman’s smile. Glory attributed it to the fact that Mrs. Landry had come from up north and always held herself slightly apart, as if she’d had a more
refined
upbringing. “Planter or cut flowers?”

“Flowers,” Glory said. “Something simple and . . . strong.”

“Let’s see.” Mrs. Landry stepped around the counter to the cooler. Leaning close to the glass, she said, “We have bird-of-paradise, here.”

“I don’t think that’s quite right.” Glory had never liked those orange-headed, long-beaked bird-looking flowers; they gave her the creeps.

Mrs. Landry said, “Let me think . . . strong . . .” She tapped her chin with one well-manicured finger. “Gladiolus? We have several colors.”

Glory shook her head. “Reminds me of funerals.”

Mrs. Landry’s gaze sharpened. “Well, you certainly have had enough of those.” Before Glory could react, Mrs. Landry went on, “This is a happy occasion then?”

Was it happy . . . sending Granny flowers because this time next year she might not be able to see them?

Glory simply nodded, still a little taken aback by Mrs. Landry’s funeral comment.

Then Mrs. Landry opened the cooler door, shifted a bucket filled with Asian lilies, and Glory saw exactly what she was looking for.

“There! Those in the back corner.”

Mrs. Landry smiled at her as if Glory were an apt pupil. “Excellent choice. White calla lilies. Very regal.” She reached for them. “Would you like greenery, or perhaps another type of flower, to fill out the bouquet?”

Glory considered for an instant. The thick-stalked, pure white funnel-shaped flowers needed to stand on their own. Anything else would dilute the effect. “No. Just the callas—maybe fifteen of them? In a plain, tall thick-glass vase.”

“It will be beautiful. Your taste is to be commended. Most people around here want roses or carnations. This will be on the expensive side.” She paused. “But I suppose price is no object.”

“It’s for someone very special.” Even as she said it, she doubted that was what Mrs. Landry had meant.

While Glory filled out the note card, Mrs. Landry wrote up the order.

“To whom and where would you like this delivered?”

Glory nearly let a chirp of laughter slip; she’d bet money that Mrs. Landry was the only person in Dawson to use the word “whom.” “They’re for Tula Baker.”

“Cold Springs Hollow Road?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Glory gave the woman her credit card and concluded the sale. As Mrs. Landry handed the card back, her countenance shifted. Glory recognized the look immediately. She’d seen it on every face she passed in Dawson after the fire; a peculiar blend of pity, curiosity, and relief that they were not in Glory’s shoes.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” She paused and shook her head slightly. “It was a terrible thing. Andrew was a wonderful young man. His mother still hasn’t recovered.”

I haven’t quite gotten over it myself.

Glory concentrated on tucking her credit card back in her wallet. She’d forgotten that Mrs. Landry and Andrew’s mother, Ovella, played bridge together. When she looked up, Mrs. Landry was still staring at her.

Mrs. Landry’s voice was low, confidential, when she said, “Ovella said they decided it was the furnace?”

“Yes.” Glory assured herself that every initial encounter was bound to bring up the subject of the fire, but after people got used to her being here again, it would die down. And surprisingly, Mrs. Landry’s questions weren’t breeding panic but irritation. Maybe she was stronger after two days with Gran.

After a pause, as if Mrs. Landry was weighing her allegiances, she said, “Odd, to have a furnace fire like that in a house only a few years old.” She pursed her lips. “Ovella just couldn’t believe it.” A challenge seemed to lurk in the woman’s voice.

Glory said nothing, just put her wallet in her purse and picked up her car keys. “Thank you for your help.” She turned to leave.

That seemed to shake Mrs. Landry out of her rare breach of polite aloofness; her curious mood concealed if not quelled. “These should be there by early afternoon.”

“That’s good. Thank you.” As Glory left the store, she could feel Mrs. Landry’s probing stare on her back.

Tula tried to hold her fretting at bay by doing some quilting, but the morning was too dark. Even with all of the lights on, the fine details of the work were obscured. Eric had ordered her one of those round hobby lights, mounted on a rotating arm with the magnifier right in the center, but it hadn’t come yet.

She had put a lot of hope in that light. Sometimes it scared her to think what she’d do if it didn’t help. But her mama had always said,
If you was born to be shot, you’ll never drown.
Tula got up and straightened her back. No need to worry over fate; if the light didn’t help, she’d trust Jesus to guide her in figuring out something else.

She said to Scott, “Come on now. We’d best get our walk in early. Gonna rain.”

The little boy didn’t appear to hear her.

She knelt before him and put her hand under his chin, like Eric always did. With gentle pressure, she raised Scott’s gaze to meet her own. “Walk,” she said cheerily.

He pulled his chin away and went back to circling his boat. It was getting harder and harder to get him to stop what he was doing and move to something else. But Eric had said it was important not to let him remain doing one thing all day long. So Tula gathered her patience and her resolve and took away the boat.

The squealing cry that followed was no surprise. She put her hands under Scott’s arms and set him on his feet.

He continued to scream, his knees now rigid with fury.

She took his little hand and pulled lightly toward the door. “It’s a fine mornin’ for a walk. Let’s go see if we can find us a squirrel.” She continued telling him all of the things they might see outside, just as she would to any of her own great-grandchildren, steeling her heart against his pitiful tears.

They reached the door more by stumble-and-drag than walk. Eric had explained to her what needed to be done to help Scott, yet never pushed her to fight these battles; said he was just grateful that she would care for him. But Tula Baker never in her life backed down from a challenge, so she forged ahead, one hard-won step at a time, repeating over and over in her mind:
The right thing ain’t always the easy thing.

Once they were out on the back steps, she stopped for a moment; it seemed only human to let the boy have a minute to adjust.

Scott crumpled to the concrete, burying his face in his hands.

After a minute, she picked him up and set him on his feet again. “Let’s go.” With a little pressure, he took a step forward. Then another. Then, eventually, another.

Ten minutes later, Tula had him moving along pretty well. His cries had reduced to shuddering breaths and sniffles. She pointed out the bumble bee humming around the cone flowers and the garter snake that slithered into the grass beside the road. She wasn’t sure if he paid any attention, but it seemed only right to keep talking.

They reached the cemetery, and Tula led him through the gate. “We’ll just take a minute for Pap.”

Scott sat on a short, boxy granite stone next to Sam’s grave and watched the movement of the grass in the increasing wind as she spoke to her husband.

“’Member I told you Glory’d come home? Well, Sam,” she sighed, “now I got me a real problem. She says she’s staying—and I know she prob’ly should, but not ’cause she thinks I need her. She’ll never find her way if’n that’s the way of it. There’s things I want to talk to her about, but just seein’ how she was when she saw Eric t’other day—I told you ’bout that—I’m thinkin’ maybe bringin’ it up might make her worse, not better.

“I don’t think she remembers certain . . . things ’bout Andrew. It’s like she’s locked all of the bad up in a closet and can only see the good she lost.

“Oh, I know,” she continued, as if he’d commented. “I know a person sometimes should do just that. But with Glory . . . I don’t think she’ll heal without opening up that closet and takin’ a long look inside.”

She paused a moment. “You’re right; you was always the patient one. I should sleep on it afore I do anything hasty. I’ll know when the time is right.”

Thunder rumbled, and the wind gave a gust. Tula patted the top of Sam’s gravestone. “Thanks for listenin’. I do sorely miss you.”

Then she turned to Scott. “We’d best get goin’.” She looked at the dark gray clouds as they tumbled across the sky and thanked God for holding off the storm until she’d come to Sam. “It looks lik’n it’s gonna be a real toad strangler.”

“I’m so glad you could meet me for lunch,” Gail Landry said to her daughter after they ordered chicken salad sandwiches at Arlene’s Tea Room—the only decent place for lunch in this town.

“You made it sound like there was something important you needed to talk about. You’re not going to bail on sitting for Scottie, are you?” Jill said.

“What makes you think that?” Gail wondered just when her daughter had grown so perceptive. Gail
had
been trying to think of a way to back out of her two days a week with Scott.

“You’re not exactly hiding the fact that you’re finding him . . . taxing.”

“Well, it is quite a lot. When he was a baby, he slept, and I could just bundle him up and take him wherever I needed to go.” She shook her head; Scott wasn’t the reason for this invitation to lunch. “But no, I’m not ‘bailing’ on you.”
Not yet anyway.
“I just thought it’d be nice if we had lunch together once in a while.”

Jill lifted a brow. Gail thought sitting across from her daughter was sometimes like looking at a photograph of her younger self. Where did the years go?

The waitress arrived with their lunch. Gail waited until she’d moved away from the table before she said, “You’ll never guess who’s back in town.”

“Who?” Jill didn’t sound overly interested.

“Glory Harrison.” Then the thought occurred to her. “I wonder if Ovella knows.”

“I’m sure she does.” Again, Jill wasn’t drawn in.

“Funny she didn’t say anything about it at bridge last night.”

Jill shrugged and took a sip of water.

“Maybe it was too painful,” Gail offered. “This has to dredge all that up again for her.” Then she asked, “Did Eric ever say anything to you about that fire?”

“No, Mother. And you know if he had, I couldn’t tell you anything. Next time we have lunch, we should ask Jennifer, too.” Jill seemed awfully quick to change the subject. “I’m sure she could use a break from the twins.”

“That’s a good idea; even though Greg is there every night to help her. It’s just so much easier with two parents.”

“Scott
has
two parents, Mother.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Eric is a wonderful father—”

Jill held up a hand. “I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good lunch with this conversation. You’ve made yourself abundantly clear already.”

Gail forked into her chicken salad. “I just worry.”

“Really, Mother, I’m fine. Scott’s fine. You don’t need to worry.”

Gail knew the conversation was over. But there had to be some way to get her daughter to see reason.

By midafternoon, Glory felt she had the worst behind her. She’d run into old high school girlfriends when she stopped to pick up a sandwich from Arlene’s Tea Room, an overly fussy establishment with great chicken salad sandwiches and a ton of clutter that Arlene called Victorian charm.

Glory realized as she’d spoken with girls who’d advanced into womanhood that she hadn’t had much contact with most of them since graduation and her marriage to Andrew—which happened in the same month. Still, they all wanted to talk about the fire—compassionately, of course. But there was a bright curiosity burning in all of their eyes, as if hoping to get a crumb of inside scoop. It made Glory more than a little uncomfortable. When she’d left Dawson, everyone had been so sympathetic. Now there was a hard edge to their interest, one that felt . . . well, voyeuristic.