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His face went still before he swung his head away, averting his gaze.
She took a breath to gather her strength and stepped closer to her husband, narrowing the distance. Pounding her breast with her fist, emphasizing each word, she said in a voice betrayed by a shaky timbre, “This land has stolen my children from me. And that is a far greater loss to me. Good riddance, I say. I despise this land!”
“You don’t mean that.” Preston’s voice was low and husky.
She took a long, sweeping glance at the landscape she’d called home for close to five decades. The roiling line of clouds rolled overhead like the closing of a curtain. Then she met his gaze and held it.
“I surely do. From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.”
They stood face-to-face, silently recollecting the wide swath of years cut low by that statement.
Around them the storm broke. Fat drops of rain splattered loudly on the dry ground in gaining crescendo. With each gust of wind the grasses swayed and shook, rattling like castanets. Then the sky opened up and the heavens cried. The roof provided no shelter from the torrents of rain, and both felt the lash of water that whipped through the air.
Mama June doubted the rain hid from Preston the tears coursing a trail down her cheeks. Yet he did not move to console her or offer any word of either argument or comfort. Her shoulders slumped and she retreated inside the house.
Preston stood rock still and watched her go. He was unmoving as he listened to his wife’s tread on the stairs, knowing she made her way to her bedroom. She would likely cloister herself for hours, perhaps for the rest of the evening, shutting him out.
Same as always.
He wouldn’t go after her, wouldn’t try to talk things through lest the words dredged up the past. She couldn’t handle that, and he didn’t know if he could anymore, either. Besides, it wasn’t worth the risk of her retreating to a place far more inaccessible than her bedroom.
He sighed heavily, her name slipping through his lips. “Mary June…”
He’d spoken harshly and was sorry for it. She was delicate when it came to matters of the family. He’d always tried to shelter her from bad news. But this… He squeezed the papers once more in his fist. This had hit too hard. He couldn’t bear this alone. Hellfire, he’d needed someone to share this burden with, and who better than his wife? She was his wife, wasn’t she?
He cast a final glance up toward her room, where she was crying, and knew a sudden pain, as if the lightning in the sky just shot through his heart.
“To hell with it!” he cried, drawing back his hand and throwing the cursed papers into the storm.
The wind caught the papers, hurtling them toward the marsh faster than a Cooper’s hawk. They landed, tangled in the tall grasses, beaten by the rain. Lightning flashed in the blackening sky, and by the time he heard the rumble of thunder, he was in the house, reaching for the snifter of brandy.
The storm passed quickly on its march from the mainland to the sea. Now the air was fresh and the pastel pinks of the sunset had deepened to a rich ocher. Preston sat on the porch, his clothes damp and his skin cold, staring out at the purpling sky while the brandy did its work. Usually Mama June sat rocking beside him in a companionable silence. He felt her absence deeply.
“At least you’re here, aren’t you, boy?” he said, reaching down to pat the black Labrador retriever curled at his feet. Blackjack, who had sneaked back onto the porch the moment Mama June left, raised his dark, melting eyes and gazed at Preston with devotion while his tail thumped with affection. “Good ol’ dog.”
With a heavy sigh he turned his gaze back to the westward slide of the sun. In the years past, he used to relish these waning hours of the day, just rocking and watching the sun set over Sweetgrass, knowing that, at least for one more day, he’d kept the Blakely heritage intact. The plantation once consisted of 1300 acres, yet over the span of three hundred years, one thousand of those acres were sold off. He’d always felt it was his duty as the last remaining Blakely male to try to hold on to what was left so that a Blakely would always have a place to call home. Thinking about this used to bring him a bone-deep satisfaction.
Tonight, he felt no satisfaction in anything. Tonight, he felt that all his efforts had been in vain.
Mama June’s words had cut him to the quick. They’d extinguished the flicker of hope he’d harbored deep in his heart that someday, in the not-too-distant future, his prodigal son would return. Though he’d told no one, night after night he’d see that dream in the hallucinatory hues of the sunsets. In that dream he would be just like that father in the Bible he’d read about. He’d see his son coming up the road and go running out of the house to greet him with outstretched arms. He’d call for a feast to be held, for music to be played, for riches to be shared—all to celebrate his beloved son’s return home after years of fruitless wandering. In his dream he would smile at Mama June and quote, “My son was lost but now is found.”
Preston’s frown deepened. Tonight he couldn’t see his dream in the shadows of the sunset. His rays of hope had extinguished along with the sinking sun, and all that was left was this cold, dark silence. He felt as if he were already dead and put in the earth. Mama June’s words came back to him: Will our children weep when we’re gone?
They would not, he concluded bitterly. Then he downed his drink.
Gripping the sides of the chair, he pulled himself out, tottering as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Too much brandy, he thought as he plodded across the porch. Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped him. Glancing up at the tall clock, he realized with surprise that he’d been sitting out on the porch for several hours. It was no wonder he was chilled to the bone. He moved closer to the staircase and cocked his ear, straining to hear sounds from Mama June’s bedroom. All was quiet. She must have fallen asleep, he thought, resigned to the fact that he would not likely be getting a hot meal for dinner this night.
Truth was, he wasn’t hungry, anyway. All that fighting and drinking made his gut feel off. Besides, he was feeling too restless to eat. He never could settle down after a quarrel with Mama June. Couldn’t rest until they’d made peace. That woman had his soul in her hands and he wondered if she even knew it. Some days, it seemed that she hardly even knew he was here.
He felt his aloneness acutely tonight. It was thrumming in his brain with a pulselike rhythm. He removed his slicker, letting it lie on the back of a chair, and wandered restlessly. His damp feet dragged and his blurry eyes barely took in the rooms as he meandered. His mind was fixed on Mama June’s words.
I despise this land!
Could she have really meant that?
From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.
For him, the day Mary June Clark first stepped her tiny foot on Sweetgrass land was forever etched in his mind. His boyish heart had never known such infatuation, and later, much later, that youthful adoration had matured into a man’s utter and complete devotion.
He’d never heard her speak so plainly. She usually kept strong opinions to herself, never wanting to make another person feel uncomfortable. But those words…it was as if they had all bubbled up from some deep, dank well. Very deep, he thought with a grimace. What was it that Faulkner had said? The past is never dead. It isn’t even past. It nearly broke his heart to think that his life’s efforts had been for naught. No man could bear that.
During one circuit of the house he poured himself another drink. After another, he headed toward the small mahogany desk in the foyer and dug out Mama June’s blue address book. His eyes struggled with the letters and he fumbled for his reading glasses, an indignity of old age to which he’d never become reconciled. After a brief search through her feathery script, he picked up the phone and dialed the number in Montana.
His heart beat hard in his chest as he waited. Steadying himself against the wall, he listened to the phone ring once, twice, then two more times. At last he heard a click and the dreaded pause of a machine.
Hi. This is Morgan. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a brief message and I’ll call you back.
Preston was unprepared for the impact of his son’s voice after so many years of silence. He fumbled with the phone cord a moment, his tongue feeling unusually thick in his mouth. When the beep sounded he skipped a beat, then blurted, “Uh, Morgan, it’s your dad. I, uh…” Preston felt a sudden confusion and struggled to put his thoughts to words. He gripped the phone tight while his heart pounded. “I called to…to talk to you. Anyway, I—” This was going badly. He had to end it. “Well, goodbye, son.”
Preston’s hands shook as he hung up the phone. He leaned against the desk, panting as if he’d just plowed the back forty. Damn, he was even sweating! What bad luck that on his first call in years he got some damned answering machine.
The sadness in his heart weighed heavily in his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath and he felt as weak as a woman, barely able to bear his own weight. He pushed back from the desk, straightening, then felt again a surge of light-headedness, as if he might pass out. He staggered out to the porch, determined to let a few deep breaths of the cool ocean air balance him.
At the creak of the door Blackjack leapt from the cushioned settee and came trotting to his side, tail wagging.
“Back, boy,” he mumbled, stumbling past him.
The dog whined and pressed his muzzle persistently against his leg.
“Back!” he cried, swinging his arm. He lost his balance and reached out in a panic, searching for something—anything—to hold on to. His eyesight went blurry, and with frightening suddenness, he was teetering in the darkness. The thrumming in his head became a brutal pounding, building in crescendo, louder and louder. He was going down. His arms reached out toward the house as he hit the floor and it felt as if the lightning struck in his brain this time, jolting him, seizing his muscles. Everything went white with blinding pain.
“Mary Ju—”
The white faded to black. Then all was still.
2
Sweetgrass (Muhlenbergia filipes) is an indigenous, long stemmed plant that grows in tufts along the coastal dunes from North Carolina to Texas. This native plant is fast disappearing from the landscape due to urbanization and development of coastal islands and marshland.
THE ENGINE OF THE PICKUP truck churned loudly as it idled before the ornate black wrought-iron gates. Atop the gate, fashioned in the same elaborate scroll, a single word was forged: Sweetgrass. The truck vibrated with the idling engine, but that was not the cause of the quake in Morgan Blakely’s heart.
The truck door squeaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. A breeze of sweet-smelling air rushed into the stale compartment, awakening him from the lethargy of travel. With another push, his feet landed on Lowcountry soil for the first time in more than a decade. He rolled his shoulders, stiff under his denim jacket. Then, lifting his face to the moist, early morning air, he yawned wide and rubbed his face with callused palms. Forty some hours of hard driving sure could make a man’s muscles ache, he thought. He still felt the miles rolling beneath his feet. No wonder. It had taken him 850 miles on I-90 just to get out of Montana.
He hadn’t thought the Road Buzzard would make the journey, but the old Chevy limped along the roads like a dog finding its way home. Nope, they didn’t build them like they used to, he thought, giving the battleship-gray truck a pat of respect. He’d bought it when he was twenty-one and, being young and proud, had pumped serious money into it, adding a hitch, a winch, a toolbox and liner and, of course, a powerful sound system. Back then, he had money burning a hole in his pocket, dreams of adventure blurring his vision and enough anger and rebellion in his gut to fuel his own manifest destiny. He’d roared down this same road full throttle and never looked back.
It had been a long, hard journey. Now, years later, his tires were worn and his speakers were blown. Before leaving Montana, he’d stuffed what little extra money he had into his wallet, enough to get him home.
Home. Morgan surveyed the impenetrable wall of bush and pines that surrounded the family property from the prying eyes of folks zooming along busy Highway 17. A ragged culvert ran along the road—like a moat around a castle, he thought, mulishly kicking the gravel. He walked off to open the heavy gates. A moment later, he drove into his family’s estate.
The sunlight dappled the road as the truck crawled along. In the surrounding trees, birds and squirrels chattered at the dawn, and from the ground, a quail fluttered, squawking, into the air. At every turn, sights brought back memories he’d kept pushed back for a long while. He saw the crumbling ruins of the old smokehouse where, in colonial time, meat was preserved. Not far from it, near an underground stream of water, was the foundation of what was once a dairy. Milk and cheese used to be kept cold in the frigid waters. The spot had been a favorite play fort for the Blakely children.
Farther on by the western border lay a large peach orchard. Morgan frowned with worry at the sorry condition of the once meticulously maintained grounds. Beyond that lay the family graveyard. A little farther up the road, the trees opened to reveal a vast, cleared and mowed space that was used by the parish for Sunday picnics, oyster roasts, turkey shoots and other church functions.
He rounded a final, wide curve in the road. What he saw made him bring the truck to a stop. As the engine rumbled beneath him, he leaned forward on the steering wheel. The wave of homesickness surprised him.
Before him in the misty air of early morning was the long, formal avenue to his family home. Massive live oaks dripping lacy moss lined the narrow dirt road, sweeping low, like ancient sentries from a graceful time long gone. If the road’s culvert was the moat of this kingdom, he thought, then these noble oaks surely were her knights.
At the end of the long avenue, the Southern colonial house awaited him like a charming belle—petite, pretty and eager to welcome him into her warmth. His father loved the house like a woman—its slender white columns, the sweeping Dutch gambrel roof and the delicately arched dormers framed with quaint squares of glass. The low foundation was made of brick and oyster-shell lime, meant to last.
And it had. The house had survived two hundred years of storms, wars, tragedies and the vagaries of fortune. She was a survivor. His father had fondly referred to the house as having “pluck.”
Suddenly the front door swung open and a petite woman with hair as white as the house appeared on the threshold, clutching a pale-blue night robe close around her neck. Morgan swallowed hard with recognition. Why had he never noticed before how very much like the house his mother was? It dawned on Morgan that his father must have made that comparison many times, as well.
Morgan slowly rounded the circle, then stopped before the house. Blackjack bounded from the porch and scurried down the front stairs, tail straight up and barking in warning. Morgan cut the engine and the truck shuddered to a halt.
When did her hair grow so white? he wondered. Or grow so frail a gust of wind could carry her away? The years seemed to stretch long between them as he stared out through the dark windshield and calculated that his mother was now sixty-six years old.
The black Lab had aged, too. Blackjack ran on stiff legs and his muzzle was completely white now, but he could still raise the dead with his barking. Morgan pushed open the door. Instantly, the large dog bounded forward, lowering his head, ears back, sniffing hard.
“Hey there, Blackjack,” Morgan said as his feet hit the earth and he slowly extended his hand. “Remember me?”
At the sound of his voice the dog took a step closer, placing his gray muzzle right to the hand. Then recognition clicked in the dog’s cloudy eyes, and with a sudden leap Blackjack began yelping and barking with unbridled joy.
“You’re getting old, aren’t you, Blackie, ol’ boy?” Morgan said with a laugh, playfully petting the old dog and feeling a surge of affection for being welcomed with such devotion.
“Morgan!”
The sound of his mother’s voice pierced Blackjack’s clamor. Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly raised himself and looked over his shoulder toward her. His gaze locked with a pair of blue eyes that were shining bright through tears. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. Mother and son stood staring for an intense moment, then she flung open her arms and took a faltering step forward.
Morgan wiped his hands on his thighs and then closed the distance to her side in a few long strides. Mama June reached up to wrap her arms around him in a trembling embrace and instantly Morgan was enveloped again in the scent of gardenias.
“Oh, my dear, dear boy!” she cried. “It’s so good to see you. Shame on you for staying away so long. I’ve missed you!”
She felt his resistance in the stiffness of his arms and it pained her deeply, yet she clung a moment longer, as though her love would be strong enough to melt his iciness.
He felt awkward in the sudden emotion and drew back with shuffling steps, offering her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“Hello, Mama June.”
She held him at arm’s length. “Darlin’, let me get a good look at you. You’re so thin! Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”
“I eat fine.”
“I’ll just bet you do…. Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of that while you’re here.”
As her eyes devoured him, his did likewise. She was different somehow. Mama June had always been slender, but time had rounded her edges and softened her skin. Her face was sleep-worn and he figured Blackjack’s barking had awakened her. Yet she didn’t look tired—that wasn’t the right word. Older. It shocked him to see it.
In his mind, his mother was always the same age as the last time he’d seen her. She was a wren of a woman, with bright eyes that shone with curiosity and quick movements that, while graceful, reflected the swift turns of her thoughts. Her hair, still long, was now a snowy white and loosely bound in a thin braid that fell over one shoulder. It was a style both old-fashioned and reminiscent of a young girl’s.
He’d known she’d be older, of course. He’d not been home in years. But knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Yet her excitement colored her high cheekbones with a youthful flush, her joyous smile brought out deep dimples and her blue eyes sparkled like a light burning bright in a window.
Mama June grinned with elation. “I…I just can’t believe you’re here! It’s a blessing! A true blessing. Oh, Morgan, what a surprise! Why didn’t you call and let us know you were coming?”
“I didn’t want to put anyone out. I figured y’all had your hands full with Daddy right now.”
Her smile slipped. “You got my message?”
Morgan nodded. “And I talked to Nan.”
Confusion flickered in Mama June’s eyes. “Nan? Your sister didn’t tell me she spoke with you.”
“I asked her not to. I wasn’t trying to be secretive, nothing like that. I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do and, well, I didn’t want to…”
“Get 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.”
