FORTY-TWO
Out of all the stories people tell about Savannah, the one that truly embodies the spirit of the place is this: Sometime around 1800 a fire broke out during a Christmas party at the home of Josiah Tattnall. By the time the servants discovered the fire, Josiah realized it was too late to save the house, so he took his guests outside to continue the party by the fire’s glow. To me, the moral is that even though life will take the things and the people you love from you, you should never, ever stop celebrating that you are alive. Josiah’s guests toasted life and each other and shattered their glasses against a large tree to show that they planned to move on and not hold on to a past that was gone.
The place where Josiah’s house once stood is now part of Bonaventure Cemetery, where stones mark my grandparents’ final resting place as well as the newly dug grave where Tucker lay. The morning had been spent memorializing Ellen’s lost love. Now, a mere spitting distance from the plot where he rested diagonally across from my birth mother’s empty grave, we Taylors, Tierneys, and a sole Cook gathered to honor the memory of Mother Jilo Wills.
Jilo’s actual burial had been a Wills family–only event held out on Sapelo Island. I’d wanted to attend, but after decades of rancor, her people hadn’t quite been able to wrap their heads around the way she and the Taylor family had bonded at the last hour. Martell had promised to say a prayer at the service on my behalf.
Oliver had a picnic basket filled with champagne flutes, and he set it down as we neared the part of the cemetery that had been laid out in a pattern representing the All-Seeing Eye. He opened it and handed a glass to each of us. Peter followed behind him, filling everyone’s glasses but mine with champagne. He paused before me and fixed his eyes on mine. My soul leaned in and touched his strength. His soul touched back, and then he moved on. Adam opened a bottle of cider for me and filled my flute.
“No,” Ellen said to Peter when he reached her. “I’ll have the cider as well.” I tried not to let my relief show. I prayed turning away from alcohol would be easier for her this time than the last.
With all our glasses filled, Peter returned to my side and put his arm around me. I leaned into him and wrapped my arm around his waist. I’d manage to stand on my own tomorrow. Today, I was just happy to have him there to hold.
“Who would like to begin?” Oliver asked.
“I would,” Iris said. She bit her lip for a moment. “Jilo, I know you can hear this.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat. “I am sorry our friendship blossomed late, but I am so glad that it did.”
Iris lowered her head, a signal that she had finished, and Ellen stepped forward. “Jilo, I thank you for looking out for all of us. Most people will never know what a debt Savannah owes you, but we do, and I, for one, will always be grateful to you.” She stepped back and placed her free arm around Iris’s shoulders.
“Oh, hell,” Oliver said, reaching down and pulling out a bottle of scotch from the picnic basket. He opened it. “Listen up, you old buzzard,” he said, emptying it on the ground. “This is 1937 Glenfiddich. Just don’t haunt me, okay?”
I laughed in spite of myself, and then all eyes turned toward me. “Mercy?” Iris prompted me. “What would you like to say to Jilo?”
What did I want to say? I had been struggling to find the words that would sum up how I felt, but the right ones would not come. I wanted to say I loved her. That there would be a hole in my heart forever where she had once been. That she had scared the hell out of me, irritated me beyond belief, and I didn’t know how I could possibly face the weight of the magic that was now mine without her support, her strength, her churlishness. I felt my hand shaking, so I raised my glass. “To Mother,” I said.
“To Mother. To Jilo,” the voices echoed around me. I drank the cider in a single draught and hurled the glass against the nearest tree.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my spouse, Rich Weissman, for his loving support and encouragement, my agent, Susan Finesman of Fine Literary, and the amazing team at 47North, especially David Pomerico and Angela Polidoro. Thanks also to my literary midwife, Kristen Weber. Finally, much love to my furry co-authors: Duke, Sugar, and my little Quentin Comfort. (Daddy misses you, Bug.)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PHOTO ? 2013 LEVY MOROSHAN
J.D. Horn was raised in rural Tennessee, and has since carried a bit of its red clay with him while traveling the world, from Hollywood to Paris to Tokyo. He studied comparative literature as an undergrad, focusing on French and Russian in particular. He also holds an MBA in international business and worked as a financial analyst before becoming a novelist. He and his spouse, Rich, split their time between Portland, Oregon, and San Francisco, California.