Sweetgrass (14 page)

The early evening mist was soft on her skin and perfumed with the cloying scent of honeysuckle and confederate jasmine. She stood alone beside the car, aware of the intense quiet after hours of ear-blasting rock ’n’ roll, laughs and shouted gossip. Her senses expanded and tingled as she breathed deep through her nostrils, almost tasting the salt from the tides. She felt the miles she’d driven slide slowly away like scales off a reptile.

She couldn’t very well walk into the house uninvited, so
she stole these precious moments of peace before she had to meet the Blakely family to gather her wits. She walked a short way along the driveway, stretching her legs and getting better acquainted with the land. A rural girl, she was more at home out of doors than in and relished the chance to explore the sprawling camellia and azalea gardens, one on either side of the house. The azaleas were finishing their season and the camellias were budding.

Someone had been very clever in situating the house, she thought to herself as she walked. One side faced the glorious avenue of oaks. The other side faced the panoramic expanse of marsh, and just beyond, the dazzling blue-green Atlantic Ocean.

Reaching out, she placed her palm against the rough bark of an enormous live oak and leaned against the old tree. Her lazy gaze took in the vista of shadowy house and twisted oaks dripping in moss against the deepening pinks and blues of a Lowcountry sunset. The wind gusted, lifting the hair from her shoulders, cooling her damp neck like a caress.

Looking out, she had an intense sense that she knew this place, that she’d lived here by the marsh, beside these very trees, some time before. The past whispered to her in the rustle of the leaves, in the night song of the purple martins, in the soft, sandy earth beneath her feet. Was this what they called déjà vu? she wondered. But she’d never been here before, not in this lifetime.

She felt certain of only one thing. She loved this place called Sweetgrass, loved this house that sat enthroned by its surroundings like a dainty queen. She belonged here. Though it made no sense at all, she felt as if she’d come home.

She heard the front screen slam and a heavy footfall on the front stairs. The moment broken, her attention shot over to the porch to see a lanky young man with thick, light-brown hair coming down the stairs toward her. He
was of average height, slim, and his tan shone against his crisply ironed yellow shirt. He walked with a confidence befitting a member of the household. Spotting her, he called out a hello. Embarrassed to be caught woolgathering, she waved shyly.

She pushed off from the tree and took a few steps nearer, her mind spinning on what she would say, when she tripped on a thick tree root that protruded from the ground. She went sprawling forward, a gasp caught in her throat.

Her hands landed on a chest as hard as wood and she felt herself being held firmly at the elbows.

“Whoa, we almost lost you there!”

She caught her breath and fumbled back to a stand, her cheeks flaming. Looking up, she saw a chiseled face that held many of the same striking features as Adele’s. He had her straight nose and strong bone structure, and his wavy brown hair was cut short in the popular fashion of the day. But with a start she realized his eyes were not at all like Adele’s deep-brown ones. His were an astonishing blue.

“I…I’m sorry to be so clumsy,” she blurted out. “I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He stepped back to a polite distance, putting his hands on his hips. “Aw, don’t worry about it. Those ornery old roots lie in wait for just that purpose. You’ve made their day.”

He smiled then and it transformed his face from merely good-looking to one of exceptional charm. The smile made his eyes sparkle with such energy it was contagious, causing her to smile as well.

He stuck out his hand. “I’m Preston. Adele’s brother. You must be Mary.”

“Mary June,” she corrected, taking his hand. She immediately recognized it as a farmer’s hand, callused from hard work and chapped from frequent scrubbing. Somehow that made her feel a little less nervous with him and she visibly relaxed.

“You’ve been abandoned,” he said. “Adele knows better than to leave a guest unattended. I’ve been sent to rescue you.”

She laughed lightly at the notion, looking down and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Thanks,” she said.

He reached his hand to scratch the back of his neck in an awkward pause while she clasped her hands tightly. Then, seemingly at a loss for words, he said simply, “Well, let’s get your luggage.”

As he was opening the Mercury’s dusty trunk, the front door swung open and Adele returned, all relaxed and smiling, her arm linked with an attractive older woman in a blue shirt-waist dress. The woman’s hair was neatly done up in a French twist and she wore pearls in her ears and around her neck.

Mary June quickly smoothed the wrinkles from her pastel pedal pushers and blouse, silently thanking the good Lord that she’d remembered her pearls. Then, remembering her manners, she lifted her chin to meet Mrs. Blakely’s smile as introductions were made and courtesies exchanged. She smoothly replied to the gracious yet thorough interrogation as to her family, her church and her connections with Adele. Once the formalities were through, a distinguished Mr. Blakely appeared in jacket and tie and smelling of tobacco to guide them all into the house.

As Mary June followed Mrs. Blakely up the stairs, she looked over her shoulder at Preston, loaded down with luggage, behind her. She secretly smiled, for she realized he was looking at her again, this time with something more than admiration.

What a summer that was! The days quickly fell into a loose and lazy pattern. She’d thought Preston was an awfully good sport. Though he was older by two years and just graduated
from college, he accompanied Adele and her out on expeditions. Her most favorite outing, however, was the fishing. Preston had risen before the sun and crept into Adele’s pink bedroom to wake up the girls by wiggling their toes. Mary June woke at his first touch, but Adele mulishly kicked and whined.

“I hate getting up early and I hate fishing,” Adele said, pulling the blankets over her head.

“Oh, come on, Adele!” Mary June said in a loud whisper at her ear. “You said you wanted to go.”

“Y’all just go on without me.”

Preston’s low chuckle filled the dim room. “Come on, Mary June. It’s no use. When she’s in this mood, she won’t budge. You can clean what we catch,” he tossed back to his sister as he turned to leave.

She only grumbled under the covers.

As Mary June followed Preston single file down the stairs, she felt butterflies in her chest at the notion that she was going to spend the whole morning alone with him. They stopped in the kitchen to drink some cold milk and eat a few of Nona’s biscuits. Then they packed apples and candy bars in a bag for later. The screen door squeaked when Preston pushed it open, rousing Mr. Blakely’s two bird dogs to investigate.

Mary June stepped out into the dawn and paused, raising her face to the sky. She breathed deeply, relishing the tingle of cool morning air against her sleepy skin. The vision of piercing rays of dawn breaking through dark clouds was, for her, better than going to church. When she lowered her eyes, she saw Preston looking at her with a quizzical expression.

“I…I like being outdoors when the sun comes up,” she said, looking down with a flush.

“I do, too,” he replied with sincerity. “It’s my favorite time of the day.”

Mary June’s gaze rose and she saw in his bright blue eyes that they’d reached some tacit understanding about each other.

He smiled crookedly. “Come on, early bird. We’ll lose the tide.”

They hurried across a lawn still damp with dew and reached the long wood dock just as dawn’s brightening pink-and-yellow light began turning the dark waters glassy. In the hush of the early morning, marsh hens cackled and their rods and gear landed in the flat bottomed boat with seemingly great, echoing thuds.

Preston climbed in first, then reached out to offer his hand to Mary June.

The small motor bubbled in the water as they churned toward one of Preston’s favorite fishing holes. He wouldn’t tell her exactly where they were headed and she didn’t really care. Her fingers skimmed the cool water and droplets of water splashed her face as she watched the birds come alive in the sun rising over the marsh. After a while he slowed their speed and searched the shoreline.

“Are we there yet?” she asked with a tease.

“Could be.”

“What’re you looking for?”

“I’m just reading the water. You have to think like a fish,” he replied. “They like somewhere to hide and their eyes are sensitive to light. So I look for rocky spots or someplace in the shadows.” He pointed to an area along the shore where a couple of live oaks bent over the water, shading it. “Over there looks like a good spot. See the rings on the water?” he asked, steering toward it. “That’s fish taking a sip. They’re in there, all right.”

He brought the small boat to a stop in his chosen spot, then put a rod and reel together and spooled it with line. When he began baiting it, she protested.

“I bait my own line, thank you very much.”

“Where’d you learn to fish?” he asked as he watched her hook a bait fish.

She shrugged with nonchalance as her fingers adroitly handled the rod and reel, but inside she was glowing at his admiration.

“My family farm in Sumter is surrounded with ponds, rivers, swamps and lakes. I learned to dig for earthworms before I could talk. My daddy always wanted plenty of worms. He’d give me a lard can filled with dirt and a drop of water. My job was to fill it to the brim.” She chuckled as she added a weight to the end of her line. “One day I left the bait can in the sun. Never did that again.”

Adele had told her that Preston was an ace fisherman, and as the day wore on, Mary June could see that for herself. He had smooth, quick acceleration in his casting and the release of line, an easy, unrushed way with the net, and the undeniable proof of several fish dropped into the cooler. Mary June desperately wanted to catch a fish, not to compete, but just so she could see again that look of admiration in his eyes. Today, it seemed she wouldn’t catch anything but puny fish that were under the legal limit.

What impressed her most about him, however, was when he released not only the undersize, but any fish that he knew they wouldn’t eat. He slipped an arm around her and taught her to hold the fish in the water by the tail and gently glide it back and forth while its gills flared open. She felt his warm cheek against her face and his hand over hers. When the fish stopped gasping, Preston said close to her ear, “Now let go.” She opened her hand and Preston gave the fish a little shove toward freedom.

Mary June felt more euphoria at the release of that undersize fish than she ever had at the catching of one. Her cheeks
felt flushed, and when she looked over at his face, mere inches from her own, and caught him smiling at her, she felt certain her own eyes held that glint of admiration she’d been searching for in his.

So many years had passed since that afternoon. Yet sitting on the side of his bed, Mama June wondered if she’d had many moments in her life as pure as that one in a flat-bottomed boat. She felt again the girlish rush she’d felt that day, and looking into her husband’s eyes, she could tell that he was remembering it all, too. They’d fished together many more mornings, just the two of them, and though they didn’t realize it at the time, Mama June knew now that it was those early mornings as the sun rose and the fish were biting that formed the bedrock of their relationship.

“You weren’t much of a talker,” Mama June told Preston, patting his hand. “Your son comes by it honestly. I had to work just as hard at fishing for words from you as I did for a bass or a bream. You must’ve thought I was a chatterbox, the way I kept going on and on. Sort of like I am now.” She laughed lightly at herself.

“But you listened. And you laughed at the appropriate places, too. And you commented on this or that—giving me my line, I suppose.” She paused in reflection.

“It just occurred to me. We’re sort of back in the same boat again, aren’t we?”

She sat silent for several more minutes, consumed with thoughts of all she’d just recalled about the early weeks of that fateful summer.

“There’s something else I remembered,” she said almost in a whisper. She licked her lips. “I know I told you that night you got sick how from the moment I stepped foot on Sweetgrass soil, I hated it.”

She glanced at him. His eyes were trained on her.

“That wasn’t true. I loved it, Preston. I truly did. Sweetgrass welcomed me from the first breath.”

His hand reached up to clasp hers, holding it tightly against his chest.

Mama June was surprised by the sudden, heartfelt passion of the gesture and her heart tightened.

“Oh, you’ll have me crying in a moment,” she told him. She felt his fingers over hers, patting in an erratic beat. She leaned closer, enjoying the intimate connection that sharing memories with him elicited. In the dark, holding hands, it somehow felt as if they were ageless.

Later in her room, Mama June undressed, uncoiled her braid, then cracked the window to its widest point. Turning off the lights, she lay in the darkness in her cool, crisp sheets while outside her open window she heard the insects sing and the gentle rattle of the roller shade knocking against the wood.

What a wonderfully strange evening, she thought. She’d felt transported in time. Lying in the dark with the moist, Southern night breeze caressing her skin, Mama June could have been the nineteen-year-old girl she’d brought back to the forefront of her mind earlier that evening.

Who was that girl? she wondered. She brought her hands to her face to explore the contours like a blind woman. Looking at her hands, she recalled placing them on Preston’s chest. Who was that boy?

She’d forgotten how enchanted she’d been at first meeting Preston. It seemed impossible she could have forgotten such a thing. His young face rose up in her mind’s eye, chiseled yet thoughtful.