The Wedding Tree (9 page)

hope

W
hile she'd been talking, Gran had leaned back in her chair and gazed at the far wall. I'd sat there completely spellbound, feeling almost as if I were a watching a movie, more than a little stunned by this glimpse into my grandmother's youth.

Gran paused and closed her eyes. I wasn't sure if she was falling asleep or just gathering her thoughts.

“Wow, Gran—did he take you flying?” I asked softly.

She opened her eyes, her mouth curved in a small smile. “Yes. Oh yes.”

“In what?”

“An air force bomber. A B-something.”

This was so unlikely that for the first time since she'd started talking, I wondered if this had really happened. She was, after all, a very elderly woman who'd just had a serious brain injury. I decided to dig for more details. “A B-17?”

“I think it had a higher number. I—I don't really remember.” She ran a hand across her forehead and closed her eyes again.

I leaned forward. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I'm afraid I'm getting a headache,” she said.

“I'll check and see if it's time for your medicine.”

I went into the kitchen and picked up the hospital discharge
instructions from the counter. As I was reading them, the back door opened and Nadine bustled in, carrying an entire mint plant. “I had to go all the way to the plant nursery in Covington to find this,” she grumbled, setting the plant on the windowsill.

I explained that Gran had a headache, and Nadine made a tsking sound. “It's no wonder. She's overdue for her medication, and she probably needs to lie down besides.” She gave me an I'm-onto-you look. “If you'd let me take care of her instead of sending me off on ridiculous errands, I could keep her a lot more comfortable.”

“She has some things she wants to tell me in private.”

“I figured.” Nadine went to the sink and washed her hands. “All you have to do, dear, is tell me you need some privacy. I can listen to an audio book—I have earphones and an iPod—and I can be in another part of the house doing laundry or cleaning the bathroom or otherwise making myself useful without hearing a word. The same goes for the aides on the other shifts.”

“I'll tell her. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Nadine lifted one of Gran's medicine bottles. “She needs two of these.”

I took the pills and a glass of water back into the dining room, gave them to Gran, and relayed the message.

“Hmph.” Gran swallowed the meds. “Can't trust folks not to eavesdrop. Everything anyone says in Wedding Tree gets repeated all over town.”

“Nadine's not from here. She lives in the country about twenty minutes away.”

Gran closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them to look at the pile of boxes. “We haven't made much progress, have we?”

“Not a lot.”

She lifted her hand and pointed to a large box in the corner marked “bed linens.” “Well, I think everything in that can go. It's full of old tablecloths and towels and such.”

“What do you want me to do with them?”

“Oh, honey—whatever you think is best.” She placed her hand on her forehead. “I think I need to lie down until this medicine kicks in.”

I called for Nadine. She helped me get Gran settled in bed and brought an ice pack for her head.

I went back into the living room, opened the bed linens box and pulled out the contents. It was filled with yellowed sheets and tablecloths worn to near translucence and neatly patched. I ran my fingers over the hand-sewn stitches, probably the work of my great-grandmother. No wonder Gran had saved them; the care and frugality that had been lavished on these linens made my chest tighten. My job was to dispose of them, though; I was here to do what Gran hadn't been able to bring herself to do.

I'd contacted a couple of vintage stores back in Chicago, and they'd agreed to look at photos of anything I thought might be valuable. I'd also set up accounts on Craigslist and eBay, and I knew the addresses of local charities that took donations.

I decided to take the linens to the local animal shelter. As I emptied the box, I wondered what had happened to Joe and how Gran had ended up marrying my grandfather. I wondered if she'd really been up in a bomber, or if her mind was playing tricks on her.

All I knew for sure was that I couldn't wait for her to tell me more.

•   •   •

After lunch, Gran took another short nap, then a physical therapist showed up to work with her. Gran needed another rest after that. I sorted through some of my mother's old clothes in the guest room, then Nadine prepared a too-early-for-anyone-under-the-age-of-eighty dinner. The night-shift worker, a middle-aged woman named Hazel, arrived at six. I'd no sooner gone through Gran's schedule and shown her around the house than three ladies from Gran's Sunday school class dropped by for a visit. After greeting them, pouring iced tea, and chatting for a few moments, I excused
myself and headed out for a run. Gran had been right; after a day being cooped up, I needed to get out of the house.

I saw Peggy heading out of Matt's house as I trotted down the porch steps. We both waved, then met halfway across the lawn.

“How are things going?” she asked.

I smiled. “We're off to a slow start sorting through Gran's belongings, but I'm hearing all kinds of fascinating stories.”

“You ought to write them down.”

I'd been thinking the same thing. I nodded.

Peggy hooked her thumb toward Matt's house. “I was just putting the girls' laundry away. They're at our house playing Wii with Griff. Matt was held up at work.”

“What does he do?” I asked.

“He heads up the Public Protection Division of the Louisiana Justice Department. He investigates and prosecutes charges of pollution, consumer fraud, equal opportunity violations, and other things that affect the public welfare.”

“Wow. Sounds like a big job.”

“It is. Which makes being a single parent especially tough. I'm so glad he moved to Wedding Tree so we can help out.”

“I'm sure the girls enjoy being near you.”

“Yes, but a move is still a big adjustment. That's why I'm so excited about you doing a mural in their room. I'm afraid I sweetened the idea of moving here by promising that their room could look like a princesses' chamber. Do you have time to take a look at it now?”

“Sure.” I was curious to see the inside of the house. It was a Georgian-style home, much larger than Gran's, with big white columns. An elderly woman had lived there when I was a kid, and Gran and I used to take her cookies and flowers. I remembered an overgrown lawn, faded floral wallpaper, and drape-dimmed windows. The place had struck me as dark and spooky.

Now it was anything but. Peggy opened the new beveled-glass door and led me into a wide, hardwood foyer. A large chandelier hung over the entryway. Sunlight poured in through the transom windows around
the door and from the large windows in the dining room and living room. “Wow!” I looked around, taking in the fawn-colored walls. “This is gorgeous! I remember it as being kind of dark and run-down.”

She nodded. “After Katrina, it was bought by a furniture store owner from New Orleans. He completely renovated it, then kept it in spotless condition. It was move-in ready when Matt bought it.” She gestured toward the staircase. “The girls' room is on the second floor.”

I moved toward the stairs, then Peggy's phone beeped. “Excuse me,” she said, pulling it out of the pocket of her denim jacket. I admired the carving on the newel post while she had a brief conversation.

She clicked off and gave me a chagrined smile. “I'm sorry, but I have to go pick up Griff's heart medicine before the pharmacy closes.”

“No problem. We can do this another time.”

“No, no, dear—you go right ahead. Take a right at the top of the stairs. It's the first bedroom on the left—the one with the twin beds.” She dropped the phone back in her pocket. “Take your time. And thank you so much!” She hurried out and pulled the door closed behind her.

It was weird, being in someone's home with no one there. This would never have happened in Chicago. But then, small-town life in southern Louisiana was completely different. With a shrug, I headed upstairs.

I found the girls' room easily enough. It was painted pink, and there were two twin beds with Disney princess comforters, two gold-trimmed white dressers with mirrors, a child-sized bookcase, and a tall antique bureau. The room had a large window with built-in plantation shutters that looked out to the front yard.

The walls were bare of artwork, but I noticed several framed photos on the bureau. I stepped closer. Every picture featured a beautiful blond woman—holding an infant, reading to a baby, sitting in front of a Christmas tree with Matt and two towheaded toddlers. My heart swelled with the magnitude of their loss. They'd been a picture-perfect family—the kind you'd see in a packaged picture frame. The girls were adorable, their mother as gorgeous as any model, and Matt . . . My stomach gave a funny little dip. Well, he wasn't hard on the eyes, either.

But I wasn't here to think about Matt. I was here to think about painting this room as if it were part of a castle. I forced my attention to the layout, took some snapshots with my phone, and started imagining what and where I could paint. Maybe I could put the girls' mother somewhere in the painting. The idea sparked a rush of creative excitement unlike anything I'd felt since college.

Inspired, I studied the photos on the bureau again. I needed to see more pictures of her, shot from different angles. Maybe there were more photos in other rooms. I headed out into the hall and toward the master bedroom. Through the open door, I could see a collection of frames on the long, mirrored bureau. Curious, I flipped on the light and walked inside.

The room was as plain as a vanilla wafer. The walls were bare and beige, and the tailored drapes exactly matched the walls. I guessed they'd come with the house and Matt had simply moved in. The furniture was simple yet elegant, a tasteful mix of new things and antiques—most likely the furniture he'd shared with his wife. The king bed was covered with a plain brown comforter, unbrightened by throw pillows or a colorful blanket. A lone lump against the headboard indicated the comforter covered a single pillow.

I walked over and picked up a silver frame on the bureau. It held a wedding picture, showing a glowing bride and a beaming Matt. My heart fluttered. Once again, I was struck by the stunning beauty of the couple. They looked like the figurines on top of a cake. Perfect. Just perfect. The kind of perfection that makes your chest ache.

It wasn't the bridal gown—which was fitted and strapless, breathtaking in its simplicity—or the woman's hair or flowers or even her flawless face and figure that made my throat thicken. It was the way Matt was looking at her. His gaze were so tender, so full of love . . . It was exactly the way every woman longed to have a man look at her.

“What are you doing in here?”

I jumped at the gruff male voice, nearly dropping the photo, and whipped around to see Matt standing in the doorway. He regarded
me in exactly the way every woman does
not
want a man to look at her. Angry. Outraged. Suspicious.

“I, uh . . . Peggy, uh . . .”

He stood there, glaring.

“. . . Peggy let me in,” I managed.

“To go through my bedroom?”

“No.” My face burned. I could feel it turning the color of a boiled beet. “I, uh, was looking at the girls' room to see about painting a mural.”

“This isn't the girls' room.”

“I—I know.” Sweat broke out on my upper lip. “I saw it, and I looked at the pictures, and I thought your ex-wife looked so beautiful . . .” I ran out of words.

His scowl deepened. “First of all, she's not my
ex-
wife. We didn't divorce.”

“I—I know. I meant your dead wife.” I immediately realized how harsh that sounded. “No—late! Your
late
wife. Or—or your wife who's passed. Or . . .”

He slashed his hand through the air, cutting me off. His scowl was so dark it reminded me of those scary trees in
Snow White
. “Secondly, being let in the house doesn't give you the right to snoop through my belongings.”

“I wasn't snooping!” But I was, and my shame knew no bounds. “I mean, I didn't open drawers or anything. I just wanted to see your pictures.”

“So you just invited yourself in for a look around?” His glower deepened. “You just thought that would be okay?”

I slinked backward. “I, uh . . . didn't really think.”

“You didn't think.”

Oh fudpuckers. Hearing my own words come out of his mouth made me feel like a total moron.

“Do you usually have impulse control issues?”

“No. Not . . . not usually.” He was being a jerk, but he had every right. I wanted to melt right through the floor in a puddle of
mortification. “Look—I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn't have come in here. But the photos in the girls' room were so beautiful, and I was thinking I might be able to incorporate your . . . your . . .” Oh, God. Here I was again, faced with the same problem. “I mean, their
mother
in the painting, and I wanted to find a photo that showed her from different angles, and your bedroom door was open, and I saw the . . .”