Love Mercy (44 page)

“I’ll call Mr. Goldstein and make an appointment for the middle of January.”

While everyone greeted Clint, Love carried the platter of ham and turkey into the dining room and set it in the middle of the table. Polly had agreed to let Rocky carve the turkey in the kitchen, saving August any trouble he might have with the large carving knife. Love gazed over the table filled with the food so lovingly prepared by Polly: baking powder biscuits, sweet corn and green beans frozen from last summer’s garden, mashed potatoes, sliced tomatoes, herb and onion dressing, homemade peach preserves, chowchow made from her own secret recipe, her famous dill pickles, which had won first place at the San Celina Mid-State Fair a record ten years in a row. It was a feast.

Love blinked back tears, missing Cy and Tommy at that moment with a pain like the actual wound to her skin made by August’s gun. It felt as new as the moment their souls left this earth. Seconds later, her heart soared when she heard the sounds coming from the living room: the deep rumble of August’s voice, the high, girlish giggle of her granddaughter, the animal growl of Zane’s young voice, the booming sound of Rocky’s teasing baritone and Magnolia’s beautiful contralto—like a foreshadowing from the bluesy section of heaven—singing her unique version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

She went into the living room and announced that supper was served. It took a few minutes for everyone to find their seat, but once they were all settled down, they instinctively looked over to August, waiting for him to say the blessing like he had at all the dinners they’d had at the ranch over the years. He smiled, looking straight ahead, uncomprehending.

Rocky cleared his throat. “Polly, would you like . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. Next to her, August smiled and picked up a biscuit.

“Let’s bless this wonderful meal,” Rocky said. “
Gracias, El Señor
, Father God, for this blessed holiday, the celebration of your son’s birth, the hope and salvation for man and womankind. Bless this delicious food, bless those who prepared it and we who will partake of it. Bless our men and women in uniform who serve and protect us every day, both here and on foreign soil. Comfort and protect them. Thank you for your continued grace as we attempt to walk your righteous path each and every day. We ask this in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

The meal was a joyous event with much laughing and joking and reminiscing. More than once Love’s throat tightened. This meal was so different from last year when Cy’s death was so new, barely a month gone, and Polly, August, Mel and Love forced themselves to gather around this same claw-foot table despite the fact that their hearts were raw and chapped with grief.

Afterward everyone gathered around the Christmas tree to pass around presents and drink Polly’s cold, sweet, homemade eggnog dusted with nutmeg. Love had bought a last-minute gift for Zane, a gift card good for twenty-five dollars’ worth of downloaded songs for his iPod, a suggestion from Rett.

“You know, Grandma, you should get an iPod,” she’d said. “You could put all your CDs on it and listen while you walk along the beach. The Nano weighs, like, nothing. Like carrying a credit card.”

“I like listening to the seagulls,” Love said, smiling. “But I’ll think about it.”

Actually, she’d done more than think about it. Yesterday she went to Target in Paso Robles and bought herself a teal-colored one to match the red one she bought for Rett.

As everyone opened presents, Love instinctively took out her camera and started snapping pictures. Her mind already gave the montage a title: “Last Christmas at the Ranch.” She quietly moved around, trying to capture the happiness and the sadness: a smile, a faraway look, a moment of peace. One shot of Polly’s and August’s eyes meeting across the room while everyone tore open presents made Love lower her camera, her eyes too flooded to see through the viewfinder. Like a physical filament of memory, everything of their shared life seemed to pass between them: the joy, the longing, the sadness, the contentment, the whole long map of their joined lives. In that moment, Love sensed that August knew that their life would never be the same.

Love watched while Mel subtly helped August when he had trouble opening a present. There was a peace in her face that Love had not seen before. Was it because the situation with Sean’s family was settled? Had her mother finally called her back and wished her a good Christmas? Love hoped so.

Yesterday morning Love had gone to the feed store to get Mel’s advice about iPods. The store was empty when Love walked up to the counter. Before she could call out, she heard Mel’s voice coming from the back office.

“Hey, Mom,” she said. “I’ve tried calling a couple of times. Guess you’ve gone somewhere for Christmas. Hope it’s someplace fun.” Her voice sounded young and uncertain. “Just wanted to say . . . well . . . guess I just want to wish you a merry Christmas. I sent you a card. There’s . . . uh . . . a hundred-dollar gift card in there. I didn’t really know what you needed. It’s one of those Visa ones. You can use it anywhere, I guess. Buy yourself something crazy. Anyway, call me if you have time. I . . . Merry Christmas, Mom.”

Love backed quietly out of the store, not wanting Mel to know that she’d overheard her conversation

How proud Cy would have been of her, how grateful for the kindness and patience she was showing with his father. For a moment, Love felt a little of what it must feel like to have a daughter, one whom you trusted and loved and, most wondrous of all, liked.

Love watched Mel open Love’s present to her. When she unwrapped the stained glass Christmas tree hanging, her initial expression was as if someone had handed her a suitcase filled with thousand-dollar bills.

Mel glanced up and caught Love’s eye. Thank you, she mouthed.

Love grinned at her, delighted. Was there any greater pleasure than giving someone exactly what they wanted? She’d tease Mel later when her friend quizzed Love about how she knew exactly what to buy her.

“You’ve mooned over that wall hanging for six months,” she’d tell her. “Did you really think I wasn’t watching?”

When all the presents had been opened, and Polly and Magnolia were serving pie and coffee, Clint stood up and clapped to get everyone’s attention.

“There’s one more gift,” he said, glancing over at Love, then nodded at Rett. She stood up and walked out of the room. When she came back in a few seconds later, she was carrying a beautiful guitar made of some kind of glossy red-tinted wood.

“First, this is my gift to Rett,” he said. “It was my mother’s guitar. Neither of my boys or their kids have a bit of interest in playing it, so I know my mother would approve of me giving it to someone with so much talent and with such a love for music.”

Rett’s face turned pink. They’d obviously discussed this already, though Love didn’t have a clue when.

“Now we’re cooking,” Clint said, rubbing his palms together, thoroughly pleased with himself. He looked at that moment like he was Zane’s age.

Rett fit the strap around her shoulders and nodded at Zane, who had somehow slipped out of the room and returned with a shiny black mandolin.

She gave Love a shy look and said, “Grandma, I didn’t have any money to buy you a present. I’ll be able to next year, ’cause now I have a job.” She turned and saluted Magnolia. “But I do have something for you. I wrote this a few days ago.”

She nodded at Zane and started strumming. The mountain sound of his mandolin notes blended perfectly with her guitar, and for a moment, Love was transported back to Kentucky, to her childhood, when neighbors came to call and you sat on the front porch of an evening and whomever had the talent played for the rest of the folks, singing the words of their lives: the hard, cold mine, how the black got into everything, Daddy could never wash it completely away, days without much to eat but crackers and canned milk, Mama singing a high, thin soprano as she sewed a skirt for Love on her treadle sewing machine, the sound of buzzing insects, the scent of frying oil, the taste of air sweet with spring flowers. How could a few bars of music capture all that?

When Rett started singing, they all hushed, mesmerized by the sound of her voice—an odd mix of soprano and alto—not perfect, but one that held the strains of her heritage, the throat bones of her Appalachian ancestors, a people who’d spent as much of their life starving as filled, but always held hope, always believed that good times were coming. When Zane’s raspy young voice swooped in and sang soft harmony, it caused everyone to stare, aware that they were hearing something unusual, two voices that miraculously seemed to be made exactly to do this very thing: sing together.

Love automatically brought the Nikon to her face and started taking snapshots, trying to capture the moment in the best way she knew how. After two or three shots, she slowly let the camera drop, the words that Rett sang causing her to catch her breath.

 

The mandolin’s final vibrato echoed in the room as Rett and Zane’s voices faded. There was a moment of silence, then everyone started clapping. All Love could do was let the tears flow down her cheeks.

Rett came over and sat next to Love, putting her thin arm around her shoulders. “It wasn’t supposed to make you cry.”

“Thank you, Sweet Pea,” Love said, reaching out and cupping Rett’s cheek in her hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “If you want, Zane and I could record it and put it on your iPod. He’s got some awesome music software.”

“That would be wonderful.”

While everyone was eating dessert, Love managed to slip outside. There’d been so much emotional upheaval in the last few weeks that she needed a moment to be alone. She wanted to go to the place that reminded her the most of Cy. She walked across the dark pasture to the lightning tree.

This ponderous old oak had been here before August was born, and it would probably still be here when all of them were gone. Would Rett’s great-grandchildren play underneath this tree? Or Patsy’s? Or Faith’s? Love hoped the ranch was still in the family then, but you never knew. Things were changing in San Celina County, in the country, in the world. There were no guarantees that the Johnson ranch would survive. That made Rett’s song even more precious. It would survive, it would always be there, a testament to the life that Love and Cy had lived. She ran her finger down the jagged scar from the lightning strike. Its edges felt smooth as satin.

“Thank you, Lord,” she said out loud to the Creator of this tree, the God she had doubted for so long, but who never gave up on her, never deserted her. She knew that now. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said to trust you, when you said to pray. Say hey to Cy for me. Tell him I hope to see him soon, but there’re some things I need to do here first. Tell him . . . I miss him. Tell him . . . I understand why he wanted to go home.” She inhaled deeply, the loamy scent of the soil assuring her that for right now, she was here on this solid piece of earth because God had a reason for her to be here.

“Love!” Clint’s voice carried like a strong ocean wave. He stood at the gate to the pasture, just barely visible in the purple dark. He pulled out his cell phone and opened it, holding it under his chin so she could see his face—a twenty-first-century flashlight. Her heart warmed at the sight of his smile, thankful for his friendship and his gentle wisdom. She’d need both in the next few months.

“I have to leave now.” His voice echoed across the dark pasture. “Wanted to say good-bye and wish you a merry Christmas.”

Love traced the tree scar one more time, then called back to him, “Hold on. I’m on my way back.”