Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice
my hopes up?”
He laughed shortly and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I guess.”
Her brows furrowed. “What made you decide to come?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “I couldn’t not come. I know it’s been strained between us, but hell, he’s still my father.”
“Oh, Morgan, I’m sorry not to have been the one to tell you. I tried to call you right after your father was brought to the hospital, but there was no answer. I kept trying and finally just left the message. It wasn’t an easy message to leave and I hated doing it. I’m glad Nan at least called you.”
“She didn’t call me. I called her. After I got Daddy’s phone message.”
She skipped a beat and her eyes widened. “His…his what? Preston called you? When?”
“A little over a week ago. Out of the blue. As luck would have it, I was on a hunting trip and didn’t get the message till the following week.” He paused, releasing a short laugh. “When I heard his voice on the machine, I sat hard in the chair, I can tell you. I listened to that message over and over again, just so I could believe it was the ol’ coot. Then I got your message.” He paused. “It hit me pretty hard. I just grabbed a map and every dollar in the house, got in the truck and drove south.”
Mama June’s jaw was slack with disbelief. “Preston called you…”
“You didn’t know that he’d called?” Morgan asked, surprised.
She shook her head. “What did he want?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. He was vague, almost stumbling, like he didn’t really know what to say. In the end, he muttered something about wanting to talk and then he hung up.”
Morgan saw a multitude of emotions flutter through his mother’s eyes as she stared off a moment and brought her fingertips to her lips. He remembered she was tenderhearted, and moved to comfort her. “Are you all right?”
“Me? Oh, yes, dear, I’m fine,” she replied perfunctorily, but this was her pat answer and Morgan didn’t believe her. She tilted her head and said with a tone of sadness, “Your father never fails to amaze me, that’s all.”
“Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather, that’s for sure.”
They shared a brief, commiserating laugh. The unpredictable nature of Preston Blakely was a family joke, and sharing it, Morgan felt one step closer to home.
“How is he?” he asked.
Her smile faltered as her tone grew troubled. “He’s not good. It was a very severe stroke. The doctors don’t know if he’ll walk again. Maybe not even talk.”
Morgan cursed under his breath. “I had no idea it was so bad.”
“What’s worse is knowing that beneath the still facade, he’s just as mad as a wet hornet to be lying in bed, cooped up in that hospital. You know your daddy. He never spent more than a day in bed, no matter how sick he was.”
“It’s ironic.”
“It’s unfair, is what it is.” Mama June tightened the sash around her waist and drew herself up. “There’s a lot to be discussed, but it’s getting chilly standing out here in my slippers and robe. And you have an empty stomach.” She slipped her arm inside his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come inside where it’s warm and let me feed you some breakfast. You must be famished.”
“Sounds great.” Morgan quickly grabbed a dusty black duffel bag from the back of the truck.
His vehicle, his clothes, even his luggage seemed coated with dust, like a caravan arriving from the desert. He’d traveled many miles. And now he was home, she thought, her heart near bursting. She led the way to the house, her critical eye taking in the shabby appearance of her usually pristine home. She’d been too preoccupied with Preston’s stroke to notice. She flushed that the porch settee cushion was covered with Blackjack’s hair, that dirt and cobwebs collected around the base of the empty porch planters. Here it was April, and she’d yet to fill them with pansies.
Blackjack paused at the foot of the stairs, eyes beseeching.
Mama June turned and pointed, directing the dog to his den under the porch. “I don’t know why I bother. He’ll likely sneak up soon as our backs are turned. Been doing that ever since your father took to the hospital. I expect Blackjack’s looking for him. I can’t recall when Preston has been away from the place for more than a day.”
“Seems pretty quiet around here. Is Nona around?” asked Morgan.
“Goodness, no! Nona retired soon after you left. Keeps herself busy with her sweetgrass baskets. Our paths haven’t crossed much since then, but I stop by her stand for a catch-up from time to time.”
“House got too dull without me, I reckon.”
“Oh, I’m sure that was the reason,” Mama June replied as she opened wide the front door.
The sunlight filled the front hall and fresh air gusted in. Suddenly she felt full of joy, like a young mother again, calling her child into the house.
“Come in, Morgan. Welcome home!”
Mama June’s heart skipped as, grinning, she ushered Morgan into the house. There was an awkward pause as they stopped in the high-ceilinged foyer and considered what to do first. It was finally decided that they’d freshen up before breakfast. Mama June led the way up the wide staircase, flicking on lights before her. Behind her, Morgan’s head turned from left to right in a sweeping survey. His worried brow told her he’d noticed how the once-lustrous creamy walls had darkened to a dusky gray and how the silk on the antique chairs was as threadbare as the festoons of curtains that flowed to the frayed carpeting on the stairs, worn in spots to the wood.
“I gather Daddy still puts every penny into the farm?” he asked.
“And he owes another penny,” she replied lightly. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”
“Well, it’s nice to see ol’ Beatrice never changes,” he teased, pointing to a painting of a straight-backed, stern-faced woman in nineteenth-century clothes wearing a bright red cap. Beatrice Blakely was a founding member of the Blakely clan in the colonies, second wife of Oliphant, “Ol’ Red,” who had arrived on American soil earlier with a land grant.
“You ever figure out what she was scowling about?”
Mama June snorted. “Taxes, no doubt. Taxes have been the bane of this family’s existence since Beatrice’s day. Morgan…” The sentence was left hanging for he’d moved on to the bedroom down the hall and opened the door.
Mama June paused but her gaze followed him. She saw him standing quietly, still holding on to his bag as he looked around his old room. She took a breath and hurried across the hall to the dimly lit room.
“I wish I’d had notice of your coming. I’d have opened things up for you.”
She made a beeline for the window. With a couple of firm tugs, she pulled back the heavy blue drapes. A flotilla of dust motes danced in the sunshine. She waved them away, her cheeks coloring. She went to the other window to open the drapes and pry wide that window, as well.
“I don’t come in these rooms much anymore,” she said, looking around with a frown. She turned toward him again, slapping the dust from her hands.
He hadn’t moved. He stood with a strange expression on his face as he took in the iron double bed covered in a navy crazy quilt and, over it, the ancient needlepoint rendition of the family crest. On the other walls hung paintings of the creeks, marsh and sailboats that he’d loved so much growing up. Under one dormer sat his pine schoolroom desk and chair, its soft yellow wood scarred with scratches. Opposite it, his tall bureau was missing the same two pulls. The only things she’d removed were his motley collection