He slid down the trunk of the tree and rested his head in his hands.
Gibbes pulled away from her and approached his brother. “We could go play chess if you want. Or we could go fishing.” His voice captured all the hope that an almost-six-year-old could hold that grief was a fleeting thing, an osprey lifting from a tree and flying away.
“Go away,” Cal said, and Gibbes’s shoulders slumped as he turned to walk back to his grandmother.
Cal looked up, his eyes burning with too many emotions. “I’m sorry.”
Edith squeezed Gibbes’s shoulders and headed to the front porch. She recognized a familiar figure as they climbed the steps.
“Deborah—it’s so good to see you.” As predicted, Deborah’s mother had lingered for a good ten years before she died, and her daughter had faithfully stayed by her side. It was too late to return to law school, so Deborah remained in Beaufort doing various types of community work and volunteering at the Heritage Society.
“It was a beautiful service. I left early because I thought you might need help before everybody got here.”
Edith smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Deborah. I appreciate it.”
Deborah leaned down with her hands on her knees in front of Gibbes. “You look very handsome in your suit. Your mother would be very proud of how grown-up you are.”
Gibbes regarded the woman with somber eyes, eyes that were the same as his brother’s under the same sandy hair. But the resemblance ended there.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Deborah tilted her head to the side, studying the boy. “I’ve got a little house on Fripp now. Lots of great places for crab pots and net casting and all kinds of fishing and swimming. Problem is, I don’t have any little boys to take advantage of all of it. So if you ever need a partner in crime to just hang out on a boat or in the water, just tell your grandmother and I’ll come get you.”
The first real smile that Edith had seen since his mother’s death crossed his face. “Can Cal come, too?”
Deborah didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. I’m a firm believer that there’s nothing that a boat and water can’t fix, no matter how old you are.”
Deborah straightened and faced Edith. “I’m yours—just tell me what you need me to do.”
Edith thought for a moment. “I need you to help me hang something.” She went inside to the hall table and pulled open the small drawer before taking out a wind chime. Bringing it out on the porch, she held it up so Deborah and Gibbes could see it. “I made this in memory of your mama, Gibbes. So that every time the wind blows, you’ll hear her voice.”
Turning to Deborah, she said, “Since you’re so tall, I thought I’d lift Gibbes up and you can help him hang it on the hook I screwed in yesterday.”
“Of course,” Deborah said. “Although I think I could use a chair, too.” She slid over a small child’s chair that Gibbes had long since grown out of but that Cecelia didn’t want to part with. Edith had been using it to hold flowerpots.
As Edith handed her the wind chime, it slipped from her grasp and landed on the wood planks of the porch with a clatter. Edith bent to retrieve it, examining each piece of glass.
“Did it get broke?” Gibbes asked, his eyes wide.
Edith shook her head. “No. This glass has been rolled and tumbled about the ocean for years, so it’s seasoned and not so breakable. You should remember that—that not all glass is as fragile as it seems.”
Edith handed the wind chime to Deborah again, then picked Gibbes up in her arms, wondering how much longer she’d be able to lift him. Deborah guided his fingers as he hung the string around the hook.
“Good job,” Edith said. She took a deep breath. “I need you to go upstairs now and change your clothes. Then pull out your overnight bag from under your bed and pack your jammies and some clean underclothes. I’m sending you to the Williamses’ for a few days. Maybe longer. Until things settle down here. All right?”
Despite Betsy Williams and Edith’s close friendship, their daughters-in-law had not carried on the tradition, even though their sons were around the same age. Gibbes and the two youngest Williams boys were great friends, but Cecelia and Kathy, despite an early friendship, had distanced themselves from each other. Edith guessed the friendship had ended after a combined family trip with the husbands and children, and had always wondered whether Kathy had seen or heard something Cecelia had not wanted her to. Kathy had phoned several times afterward, but Cecelia had never called her back. Kathy had been at the service earlier, and she and Edith had avoided looking at each other, as if guilt and blame had chosen a seat between them.