Love Mercy (38 page)

“See you there.”

Love left immediately, wanting to sit for a while before Mel arrived. There were rarely any children at the playground that early in the day, probably because it was usually still misty and damp. Once the sun burned away the fog around noon, the bronze whale tail and seals, the wood and concrete ship and the rocking fish would be filled with laughing, screaming children. When the city informed Love where Cy’s memorial bench was to be placed, she was overwhelmed with the rightness of it. From his bench you could see the playground, the bay, the boats, Morro Rock and, in the distance, the open ocean. Everything he loved could be seen from this one perch. As she did each time she sat down, she put her fingers to her lips, then touched them to the brass plaque.

“In Memory of Cyrus August Johnson—1950-2007—Beloved Son, Husband, Father and Friend—Born and Raised on the Central Coast—From paradise to Paradise.”

“Hey, Cy,” she said. “Things sure are looking better. But then, that probably doesn’t surprise you at all.”

She sat there for a half hour before Mel arrived, enjoying the quiet. Love didn’t know what Mel needed to tell her about her past, but before she even started, she was going to make it clear that whatever it was, it would not affect one bit how Love felt about her. Though they’d only known each other a few years and though they didn’t bare their souls to each other in the way she and Magnolia did, Love trusted her instincts. She would have bet the ranch on Mel’s decency and goodness. She was, Love suspected, someone who cared deeply but who’d seen too much hurt to let anyone get close.

Though Love knew a part of her would always feel missing with Cy gone, she suspected the pain Mel was feeling was very different. Like a motherless gosling, Mel had imprinted on Cy. She was, Love imagined, feeling the pain of almost having something and having it snatched away. Love would always have the assurance that she was loved, and that would carry her through her life. But even through her tears at Cy’s funeral, she could see the absolute terror on Mel’s face.

“She’s carrying a world of hurt inside her,” Cy told Love when he first hired her, right after the chicken incident. “I don’t know what happened to her, but I feel like the Lord brought her to us, and I want to do whatever I can to make her feel safe.”

Mel and Cy became friends immediately—good friends. And Love had become friends with her too. She had never been jealous, secure in Cy’s love for her, in her place in his life. She knew his feelings for Mel were special. She’d needed him and, in a way, he had needed her. Not as a replacement for Tommy. More like the daughter he’d never had. Now that Love thought about it, what he and Mel gave to each other had been more like . . . a gift.

Love felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, Mrs. Johnson,” Mel said, slipping around and sitting next to her on the bench. “Looks like it’s just you and me right now.”

Love looked into Mel’s tired young face. Pale lavender shadows stained the skin under her dark brown eyes. Her cheeks were flushed crimson from the cold. For a moment, she could imagine the little girl Mel once was, all gangly arms and skinned-up legs, big-eyed and serious. Who had hugged her when she was afraid or lonely? If no one had, would there ever be enough hugs in her life to compensate for that? Love couldn’t help herself. She reached over and laid her palm against Mel’s cold cheek.

“Melina Jane LeBlanc,” she said, feeling Mel’s skin start to warm under her hand. “I’m so awfully glad to see you.”

Mel’s eyes grew moist, though Love would be willing to bet it had been some time since she actually allowed tears to roll down her cheeks, at least in front of anyone. Even at Cy’s funeral she’d been stoic as a monk.

“You might not think so after we talk,” she said.

Love reached down and took Mel’s cold hand in her own. “Sweetie, I truly, truly doubt that.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

R
ett drove as far as she could on the road that ended at Morro Rock. Her grandma Love was right: not many people were out here this early in the day. She parked the car facing the ocean and stepped outside. It was cold and wet from sea spray. The foghorn that blew all night was still going, its warning like a slow, mournful heartbeat. Behind her, Morro Rock rose to the sky, looking less spectacular close up than it did from her grandma’s back deck, not so shiny. Really, just a big old rock.

Except that close up, she could see the tiny bits of life sustained in the crags and crevices, evidence of birds, wildflowers, insects. She turned away, walked to the edge of the ocean and peered into the churning water. It was so different from the lakes she’d grown up around, whose dangers included poisonous snakes and sometimes quicksand that grabbed your feet and made you feel like you were being pulled into the depths of the earth. This was different even from the ocean she’d seen in Florida. The Pacific Ocean seemed wild and untamable, like the wolves she’d seen on a National Geographic program. The pups were so cute, but then the photographer would zero in on the wolf mama’s eyes, and you just knew that she’d rip your throat out without a moment’s hesitation. A wave broke against the rocks, spraying her with a fine, cold mist. If she was going to do any writing, she’d definitely have to stay inside the car.

Inside the car it was still cold, but she knew if she turned on the heater, it would make her drowsy, and she’d never get this song written. And it was itching at her, telling her, now, now, get it down
now
. The emotion from it welled up in her—the words, the melody—like one of the waves crashing against the rocky shore. She pulled Dale’s banjo out of its case and held it for a moment, letting its heavy fullness rest in her arms. She’d miss it, this hunk of satiny wood and cool metal that accompanied her on what was, for now, the biggest adventure of her life. But it wasn’t hers. And it was time, as Mel said, to move on. Dale would always, always have that piece of her heart. It sort of pissed her off, and at the same time she was sort of okay with it. Because it was her experience, her life, and it was hers to use. She wondered what she’d think about all this thirty years from now. Thirty years. It seemed like forever. She’d be forty-eight. Patsy would be forty-nine. This unborn child that was causing everyone so much pain would be twelve years older than Rett was right now. It was hard to imagine that much time passing.

She tuned the banjo quickly by ear, second nature to her since she was ten, then started playing song after song, listening to its full sound once more, feeling the notes ring long after she’d plucked them—“Cripple Creek,” “Banjo in the Hollow,” “Bury Me Beneath the Willows,” “Sally Goodin’,” “Blackberry Blossom,” “Wayfaring Stranger”—old songs she’d played when she first learned the banjo. She ended with “Amazing Grace,” which she sang as she played, in her mind dedicating it to Tommy Johnson, the father she barely remembered. After a half hour or so, she set it upright in the passenger seat, like a fellow traveler, and pulled out her notebook. The words, baking in her subconscious like some kind of slow-cooking cobbler, flowed out of her in a quick, delicious waterfall of detail. For her, there was nothing better than this, not even first love. And, she suspected, there never would be.

Before Rett realized it, the fog had burned away, and the sun shone through the car windows. She noticed people walking past her car, peering curiously inside as she wrote, played a riff or two, then wrote again. It would have been easier with a guitar, but she liked the idea of composing a song using this banjo. It was something else to remember about this last incredible week. In four hours she’d finished everything except two lines of the bridge. But they’d come to her. Though she probably wasn’t the best judge of her own work, she thought this song might be the coolest one she’d ever written. It made her cry, and that was a good sign, wasn’t it? She laughed at herself when she put the banjo back into its case. That was so totally self-centered. The song was probably a piece of crap, but, somehow, just writing it all down made her feel better, made her feel like she’d taken some kind of giant step forward in her life.

She glanced at her phone. It was a quarter to one, but the Buttercream was only a few minutes away. She had plenty of time. It wouldn’t hurt Dale to wait a few minutes longer.

She started to call Lissa to tell her everything that had happened. When she got the number half dialed, she disconnected. No, she didn’t need to do that. She could deal with this without help from her friend. It was time to take charge of her own life, with no advice from anyone else.

When she walked into the café carrying the banjo, it was a few seconds before she spotted Dale sitting in a corner booth. His face, drawn and shadowed with irritation, softened when he saw her. Her heart skipped, unable to hold back hope, until she realized it was the banjo he was looking at, not her.

“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself.

“Coffee?” Magnolia called, as Rett walked toward Dale. An untouched plate of French fries sat in front of him, steam rising from their golden depths.

“Thank you,” Rett called back.

Magnolia was at the table two seconds after Rett sat down across from Dale, pouring a white mug full of steaming coffee. “Hungry?”

“Not right now, thanks,” Rett replied, looking up at the older woman. Did Magnolia know what a big moment this was in Rett’s life?

“You let me know if you need any little thing, darlin’,” she said. Then she turned her attention to Dale. Her full lips pursed into a little donut before saying, “Young man, do you require anything more than that lonely plate of fries?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “This is fine.”

“Okay, y’all holler if you need something.”

Once she’d left, Rett picked up a fry and contemplated it before putting it in her mouth. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” he said, drumming his fingers on the red Formica table. “I’m ready to get going. You okay with things?”

She contemplated his words. “Actually, I am. I mean, with things between you and me. I’m so over that, you know.” She looked him right in the eyes when she said it, daring him to contradict her.

He looked back at her, his eyes lingering on her lips and throat. She felt herself start to warm, so she decided to squelch whatever physical thing there was between them right now.

“You
are
going to go see Patsy when you get back, aren’t you? She needs you right now.”

“I guess,” he said, his eyes darting sideways, looking in that moment to Rett just exactly what he was: a flaky, shallow guy who didn’t think past his next gig, his next bottle of beer or his next hookup. Poor Patsy. In that moment, Rett felt like throwing her cup of coffee in this sorry-ass guy’s face for messing up her sister’s life.

“You are legally this baby’s father, and you should help her,” Rett said, coldly. “Step up, Dale. Be a man for once.”

“Hey, that’s low,” he said.

She shrugged. “Low is taking off on your pregnant girlfriend.”

“You had my banjo! It was your fault I had to leave Knoxville.”

She gave him what she hoped was a withering look.
Withering
. Now there was a good word. Had all kinds of connotations to it. “Just take your precious banjo and go home. Go talk to Patsy and figure stuff out. Grow some balls.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Though she’d always wonder what his comeback would have been, she knew a good last line when she heard one. She scooted out of the booth.

He slid out and picked up the banjo case. “Guess this is good-bye, then.”

She grabbed her mug, turned her back to him and walked over to the counter where Magnolia was cutting a lemon icebox pie. Rett stared at the yellow and white pie, feeling her heart give a little when she heard the cowbell on the door jangle.

“He’s gone,” Magnolia said, slipping a plate in front of Rett. “Might as well have some pie.”

Rett sat down on the stool. “That could be a song.”

“You stick around this place long enough, you could write more songs than you could record in a year. Everyone’s got a story.” She cocked her head. “One of our morning waitresses just quit. It’s my job to hire and fire.”

Rett picked up her fork and took a bite of the pie. It was sweet and sour and bitter all at the same time. Kind of like the last few days. “I’ve never been a waitress before.”

Magnolia’s left eyebrow went up. “Everyone should be a servant at some point in their life. It’s good for the character.”

Rett took another bite. “I might not be here long. I have plans.” They were vague plans—L.A. or Nashville? She couldn’t decide.

“Plans need money, and I hope you aren’t expecting your grandma to be footing the bill for your music career. We barely make enough to get by with this place. Thing is, I need someone from six to eleven a.m. Tuesday through Saturday. Minimum wage plus tips.”

“That’s early,” Rett said. “I hate getting up early.”

Magnolia slipped the pie back into the glass case. “Life’s hard, and then you die.”

“Will I be working for my grandma? That’s kinda weird.”

“Like I said, I hire and fire. That was my and Love’s deal. She does the books, buys the food and bakes the cakes. I deal with the employees.”

Rett thought for a moment. “Okay. When do I start?”

“Tomorrow. Wear comfortable shoes and bring a smile. A lot of screwups can be bought with a sincere smile.”

Rett looked up at her and grinned.

“Yeah,” Magnolia said, shaking her head, her expression saying she was already regretting her offer. “The old farts will like you just fine.”

Before Rett could answer, the phone behind the counter rang. She went back to her pie, wondering how much it would cost to have her old banjo and guitar mailed out here. Or maybe she’d just save up for new ones, to go along with her new life. Living in California, wasn’t that something? Lissa was going to be so jealous. Her grandma would be glad. At least, she hoped so. Mom would pitch a fit, but what was new about that? She felt kind of bad that she wasn’t back there helping with this crisis with Patsy, but a person had their limits. She could give up Dale, but she wasn’t sure if she had it in her to sit there and watch them be all over each other as Patsy grew bigger with his baby. Then again, she had a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t even be around when this baby was born.