“Oh, honey, they fit you real good. You’ve got such a cute figure, and it’s not a sin to show it off. Whoever told you that you look better in the clothes you’ve got had something wrong in their heads or needed to have their eyes examined. Or maybe both.”
She’d said it as a joke, but Merritt’s face seemed to close in on itself, like a person pulling the blinds on a window. She turned without a word and headed toward the old cemetery behind the ruins, bending over to examine one of the stones, a stone where Loralee could see that all the words had been washed away by time.
Loralee began walking toward her, wanting to know more, to find out what had happened to the Merritt whom Robert had talked so much about. Loralee was usually a lot more restrained, especially with people like Merritt, who created an imaginary bubble around them at all times, but she didn’t have time for gentle persuasion.
She stopped suddenly, a groan making its way halfway up her throat. She pressed down on her abdomen, willing the ache to go away, hoping it was something she’d eaten for breakfast that wasn’t agreeing with her. Her hand kneaded the spot as she took deep breaths. Remembering what her mama had told her, she made her mouth smile and waited. Smiling makes everything seem better, and makes other people think you’re up to something. She wasn’t sure that was going in her journal, not completely convinced that the first part was true.
“Mama? Are you okay?”
“Yes, baby. I’m fine. Just a stitch in my side. Let’s go find a good stone with lots of words and maybe a picture for you to work on.”
With deep breaths, she followed Owen into the cemetery, where old and new stones seemed to be arranged in a haphazard pattern, like a gambler’s dice that had been tossed on the sandy soil.
“Why is Merritt staring at that empty stone?” Owen asked quietly.
Loralee bent over, trying to ease the pain, pretending to study the dates on the stone in front of her, much as Merritt was doing. “Because she’s working out something in her head. Just because somebody’s being quiet doesn’t mean they don’t have something to say.”
“Are you going to write that in your journal?” Owen asked.
Loralee took off his glasses and cleaned them on the edge of her blouse. “Yes, I expect I will.”
She placed the glasses back on his nose and watched him dash off toward two large aboveground tombs. One had the roots of a giant oak nudging the base of it, as if in a contest to see which one could claim the ground the longest. Loralee was about to point it out to Owen when she felt a sharp pain, taking her breath away.
“Loralee?”
Merritt’s face seemed blurred.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth. “I might have food poisoning. If I could just sit down . . .” She slid to the ground, leaning against the tombstone of a woman who’d died in 1832.
“Mama? Are there dead people in here?” Owen gently patted the horizontal stone over one of the large tombs.
After a quick glance at Loralee, Merritt answered, “Yes. But if they’re really old, I imagine they’ve all turned to dust by now.”
“Can I do the wax rubbing on one of these?”
“Yes. But try to be fast, okay? Your mother isn’t feeling well.”
Loralee raised her hand in the air. “It’s all right, Owen. I’ll be fine after I rest a minute. Take your time.”
After a worried glance at his mother, Owen pulled out the supplies he needed from his backpack and got started.
Merritt frowned down at her. “Are you sure you’ll be fine? You don’t look well.”
Loralee could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. “If you’re going to be a proper Southerner, you’ve got to work on your conversational skills. I know I probably look like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet—or worse. You just need to learn how to say, ‘Bless your heart,’ when you tell somebody they don’t look well, or they won’t take you seriously.”
Merritt blinked at her a couple of times. “You look like you’ve been dragged for miles through the swamp and hit a few stumps, bless your heart.”
Loralee managed a smile. “Not bad.”
“Do you need some water? We’ve got those bottles in the cooler in your car.”
Loralee shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. “No. I just need to rest a bit. I wish I hadn’t forgotten my purse—I have a delicate stomach, and I always have pills in there for this kind of thing.” She paused, catching her breath. “I should be good to go by the time Owen is done.” She swallowed, forcing down the nausea. “He takes a little longer than most trying to get his wax crayon over every crevice, like the little perfectionist he is. He gets that from his daddy.”