Sweetgrass (15 page)

During those glorious two weeks at Sweetgrass, Preston had become the third musketeer. He drove the powerboat as
Mary June and Adele took turns water-skiing the Intracoastal Waterway. He commandeered their hiking expeditions through the murky woods, defending them against snakes and spiders. He accompanied them to the beach on Isle of Palms, where they slathered on baby oil and bodysurfed the waves. And on sultry, lazy nights when they were too tired or sunburned to go out for ice cream or a dance at Front Beach, they sat together on the screened porch and played endless hands of canasta, whist or hearts.

In some ways, he was the brother she’d always wanted. Preston was bighearted, protective and, at times, all knowing. At other times, especially on humid nights when she tossed in her bed, she thought he was anything but brotherly and wondered if she was falling in love with this quiet yet self-possessed boy.

Looking back now, Mama June knew herself to be a fool for not having realized that Preston wasn’t being just a good sport. If she’d been older, more mature, more experienced, she would have realized that he’d been in love with her from the very start.

But she didn’t realize that at the time. She was only nineteen, and to her it was simply a whirlwind of flirtation and fun that ended when she returned home to Sumter after the arranged two weeks.

Adele had begged and pleaded for her to come back or she’d just die of boredom. Preston, of course, lent his support to the argument, and Mary June didn’t need to be asked twice. Perhaps if she’d stayed home in Sumter for the rest of the summer, Preston might have written or come to the college for a visit and their relationship might have followed a different course.

As it was, neither set of parents could say no to Adele when she had her mind set. So Mary June returned to
Sweetgrass after the Fourth of July to spend the rest of the summer. She’d expected to while away the time with Preston and Adele in much the same fashion as during the first two weeks of summer.

But on the afternoon of her first day back, Mary June Clark met Hamlin Blakely III—Tripp.

After that, everything changed.

IT WAS MORGAN’S HABIT
to rise early. He didn’t need an alarm clock. The dawn song of the purple martins usually stirred him from his sleep before the sun rose.

He liked to rise before the others and go outdoors in the relative peace of dawn. He’d lived alone in Montana for so many years that he found the closeness of so many people again confining. In the isolation of his mountain home, he could loosen the noose of anger and resentment that he’d felt around his neck at the family home.

Since he’d returned, however, the nightmares had returned, too. Not even the usual dousing of the flames with Jim Beam or Johnnie Walker could stop them from ravaging his sleep. He intended to honor his commitment and stick it out at Sweetgrass for a while longer, but to keep his sanity, he
avoided his father and the sickroom and sought refuge in the solitude of early morning runs across the property.

The land gave him room to breathe. As he crossed the untouched, natural beauty, he couldn’t deny his connection to it. Like the migrating birds and butterflies, Blakelys had passed through these fields, generation after generation, each leaving his or her temporary mark before moving on. Always, however, the land remained—verdant, vibrant, as welcoming and fecund as a sweet-scented woman.

To him, the Lowcountry was a land of contrasts. Its inhabitants suffered devastating hurricane after hurricane, endured humidity so thick their lungs felt like they were blanketed by moss, and battled mosquitoes so hungry they’d feast through fur, feather or clothes.

The Lowcountry’s landscape generously fed even the poorest of men a banquet from its waters, hosted a bountiful way station for a kaleidoscope of migrating birds, captured the magic of moonlight through the lacy fronds of moss and revealed God each evening in the unparalleled magnificence of its sunset.

The Lowcountry was a Garden of Eden, and once having bitten the apple, being ostracized from the garden was a living hell. Like him, most Lowcountry boys living elsewhere felt the tug of the tides drawing them home. The love of this sun-drenched land, the memories held in each blade of sweetgrass, was in his blood as sure as any gene that held eye color. Or predilection for disease.

So Morgan ran. Each morning his feet pounded the ground that his ancestors walked until sweat ran down his face in rivers. He ran to put some distance between himself and whatever it was that plagued his sleep at night. He ran hoping, irrationally, that it would somehow bring him peace. But no matter how long he ran or how far, it was never far enough.

Each path he took led to home.

Morgan saw Kristina working in the garden beside the kitchen house when he rounded the front circle. The ancient garden was a rambling, weedy, tumbledown affair, semi-en-closed with a low brick wall to the back and a picket fence along the house side. A narrow brick walkway in a herring-bone pattern divided the garden into quadrants, and in the center of these was a copper sundial that had aged to a soft green patina.

Kristina was on her knees on the walkway, bent over the dirt and waging war with an enormous, tenacious weed. She wore jeans and an old white shirt rolled up at the elbows and tied up below her breasts. The enormous brim of her straw hat covered her shoulders like a tent. He walked along the path to her side, enjoying the sight of her well-proportioned form. Drawing near, he held back a chuckle at her low, breathy curses.

“Looks like you’re losing that battle.”

“Morgan!” She sat back on her heels and brought her gloved hand to her chest, spraying dirt across the bricks and her shirt. Her cheeks glowed from the battle, the blazing sun and the fine sheen of moisture on her skin. “You scared me half to death! I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. I came up from the woods and spotted you here. From the looks of it, I’m not sure you’re winning.”

“Me, neither. Some of these roots go straight to China.” She tugged her garden glove from her fingers and, once freed, reached her hand up to pull off her broad hat and fan herself with it. Her golden hair was pulled back in an elastic, and the curls, kinked from the humidity, formed cornrows along the side of her head.

“You’ve got some dirt…” he said, pointing to her shirt.

“Where?” Kristina looked down and saw the smudge over
her heart where she’d laid her hand. Brushing it off, she laughed and shrugged.

“Doesn’t make much difference. I’m coated with dirt from head to toe. And by the time I’m finished today the sweat will turn it all to mud.” She looked up at the sun and fanned her pinkened cheeks. “It sure is hot for May!”

“You’re in the Lowcountry now. Hot comes early.”

She narrowed her eyes, taking in his sweaty T-shirt, ragged-edged shorts and muddy running shoes. “You look pretty hot, too. What were you doing, running?”

“I’m getting familiar with the place again.”

“Again? Have you been gone for a while?”

He nodded. “I moved to Montana years ago. I have a small place there.”

“Ah, you’re a western boy!”

He laughed but shook his head. “I might live in the West and work in the West, but I’ll always be a Southerner. There’s no escaping it. Trust me, I know. It’s in the blood.”

“Then why did you leave?” she asked lightly.

“Why do any of us leave home?”

She paused a moment before saying, “There’s always a reason.”

He wiped his brow with his sleeve. “For me, the leaving and the coming back both have to do with my father. Classic. Now, turnaround is fair play. How about you?”

She fanned her face with her hat. When she spoke again, her voice was flat. “I followed someone I thought I loved. Or perhaps I should say that I thought loved me. Another classic reason, isn’t it?” She lowered the hat and gave it a light toss. It floated in the sky like a Frisbee before landing on a chair a short distance away.

The vulnerability he saw in her eyes disappeared so quickly that he couldn’t be sure he’d even seen it.

“Well, I’m done for,” she said with a quick smile. “Whew, it’s hotter than Hades today. I could sure go for a swim.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Where?”

“How about the beach? It’s a ways off but we could drive.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t have enough time today for a beach outing. Duty calls.”

“Well,” he said with hesitation, “you could go to Blakely’s Bluff. That’s right close. I could tell you how to get there easily enough.”

“Blakely’s Bluff? Where’s that?”

Morgan pointed off toward the rear of the house where the marsh became creek and, farther out, creek led to the ocean. “It’s out there straight as the crow flies, on a spit of land that juts out into the ocean. It’s a pretty place and there should be a small bit of sandy beach we try to keep up. There’s a dock, too, though God knows what shape it’s in. The family has a summerhouse there.”

“Another house?”

“I wouldn’t be too impressed. It’s pretty rustic. There’s no indoor plumbing or electricity. But it’s got its own charm and you can change clothes there. You’re welcome to use it as often as you like.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’d love to go.”

His eyes deadened. “It’s just down the road. You won’t need me to find it. If you follow that small back road around the house as far as it goes, it’ll take you right to it. The house is smack at the end of the line.”

“I’d love the company.”

“I said no.”

She acknowledged the cool tone with raised brows. “Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to keep plowing through those financial records. Good luck with the garden.”

Mama June stepped out onto the back porch and smiled to find Nona sitting there. Nona wore a scarf wrapped around her hair in her favorite color of sky-blue, which matched her slacks. Her head was bent over and her hands were tirelessly coiling strands of sweetgrass and sewing them up with long, thin strands of palmetto. Her traditional silver-spoon needle caught the sun as she worked.

Beside her sat a young girl of about nine years of age, her head also bent over a circle of sweetgrass about the size of a coaster. Her slim shoulders protruded from under her brightly colored tank top. The girl’s hair was neatly plaited in braids and her skin was as smooth as coffee-colored cream. She looked up when Mama June approached, and her eyes were large and expressive. Mama June knew in a flash she had to be Nona’s granddaughter.

“This can’t be little Grace?” she asked.

Nona looked up and smiled in greeting. “It sure enough is. Grace, this is Mrs. Blakely.”

Her eyes averted shyly, but Grace rose to her feet with coltish charm and extended a long, slim arm. “Pleased to meet you” came out in a breathy rush.

“Dear child, this is not the first time we’ve met,” Mama June exclaimed, taking the child’s small hand in both of hers. “I held you in my arms when you were no bigger than a mite. Your grandmother used to carry you everywhere she went in a Moses basket. Remember that basket?” she asked Nona, turning her head.

“I still have it!” Nona exclaimed.

Then facing Grace again, Mama June said, “You were a
regular visitor here at Sweetgrass. But it’s been a long time, and now look at you. You’ve grown up! And what a pretty little thing you are, too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Blakely.” Grace ventured a smile.

“Please, call me Mama June like everyone else.”

Nona looked on with a pride that shone from her eyes and brightened her face.

“So your grandmother is teaching you how to make baskets, is she?” Mama June asked her as she made her way to the empty rocking chair beside Nona.

“This here’s the one that’s going to carry on my craft,” Nona said. “She has a gift for it and she loves it, too. Don’t you, honey?”

Grace nodded her head.

“Good for you,” replied Mama June. “How about your mother? Did Maize ever pick it up?”

“No, ma’am,” replied Grace. “My mama don’t like making baskets. She thinks it’s boring.”

Mama June chuckled as she lowered herself into the rocker. “Yes, that sounds like the Maize I remember.” She groaned. “My feet are so sore! The speech therapist is in with Preston and I’ve been looking forward to sitting down for hours.” She looked over at Grace, who was picking up her handiwork.

“Come show me what you’re working on today,” she said, waving the child over.

“It’s not much,” Grace said as she handed over the three-inch coil of stitched sweetgrass. “I’m just making the bottoms. Same as always,” she said with a theatrical sigh.

“It’s a start,” Nona said. “We all began in the same fashion—me, my mama, my grandmother and so on.”

“But I want to make my own basket,” she said with a pout. “I could, Granny. I know I could.”

“You think so?”

“Honest, Granny, I really do.”

Nona set her basket in her lap, then reached out her hand. “Let me see what you’ve got, child,” she said, taking the child’s circle of grass. She held the project up to the light. “I like to see if the stitches are tight and even. I might could see the sun peeking through, but I don’t like to see too much. It has to be strong, too. Tough. Just like your fingers, eh?” she said with a laugh, reaching out to take hold of Grace’s hand. She kissed the fingertips then handed the circle back to Grace.

“Is it good?” Grace asked, her eyes studying her own work.

Nona nodded. “That’s a good one. Better than good.” She peered up at the child, her dark eyes both teasing and speculative. Then she wrapped an arm around Grace, holding her close. “Maybe you are ready to build up a basket after all.”

Grace stretched up on her toes in excitement. “Really?”

“Really. Now, gimme some sugar.” She lifted her cheek, closing her eyes and beaming as Grace planted a noisy kiss. “That’s sweet. Okay, go on in the kitchen and pour yourself some lemonade. I made it fresh from scratch. I knew it was going to be a hot, hot day today. You could bring us old folks a drink, too. How does that sound to you, Mary June?”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Okay! I’ll be back directly!” They watched the girl gambol to the kitchen, her joy visible.

“She’s a great girl,” Mama June said. “You must be proud.”

“I am one lucky old woman to have a grandchild like her. She’s never a moment of trouble. My Grace is a straight-A student. And she sings in the gospel choir. She’s her grandmother reincarnated. And her brother, he doesn’t get into trouble, neither. Now, what he knows about is computers. I know nothing about computers! But my Kwame is making
me a…what do you call it? That place on the Internet where I can show my baskets?”

“A Web site?”

“Yes, that’s it! A Web site. He’s making me one. Imagine that!” She laughed and shook her head as she rocked. “Thirteen years old and making his grandmother a Web site. How the world has changed. He’s not much interested in making the baskets, though. Most kids his age aren’t. They want to play with their computers or watch television. But he’ll go out with his grandfather to our sacred spot to pull the sweetgrass and cut the bull rush. So I’m proud to say that Kwame does his part with the baskets, too.”

“You’re a lucky woman,” Mary June said again, rocking and thinking of her own grandsons and how they hadn’t come by to see their grandfather since his return home. She couldn’t ask them to come, didn’t want to beg. They were old enough to make that decision based on their own hearts.

Nona sighed and looked down in her lap at the circular basket she was building up. The stitches were tight and even, the basket getting taller and taller. She thought of all the mothers in her family that had taught their daughters this art form, and all the fathers who had taken their sons out to collect the grass.

“I’ll teach Grace, and Grace will teach her daughters, and so it will continue,” Nona said. “From one generation to the next. Mother to daughter. Father to son. God willing.”

“God willing,” Mama June concurred.

They rocked awhile in silence, each lost in her own train of thought.

“I’m worried,” Nona said at length.

“About what?”

“Sweetgrass basket weaving has been passed on since the days of slavery, but after all these generations, I worry if my art is dying fast.” She sighed. “I might be the end of the line.”