Chapter FOUR
“Just why are you here?” I asked my angel again the next morning. If I’d had any doubts about her heavenly connections, they vanished when I tasted Augusta’s coffee. And pancakes, so crisp and light they almost floated, seemed to multiply as fast as we could eat them, although Penelope did her best to keep up until Augusta gave her a warning lift of the brow.
“As I said, I’m filling in.” She smiled. “More coffee?”
I held out my cup. “But why?”
“As to that, we’ll have to wait and see.” She began to fill the sink with rainbow bubbles. “We can start by getting these dishes cleared away so you can join the others in your family. Penelope, you may help dry.”
Oh, no! Not with Mama’s good china! “Oh, please, let me,” I said, grabbing a dishtowel from the drawer.
“Very well, but she has to learn. What good is it if we do everything for her?” Augusta tossed the girl a sponge. “I suppose you can start by wiping crumbs from the table and sweeping underneath . . . on second thought, forget the sweeping. We’ll work on that tomorrow.
“This is the first occasion I’ve had to help train an apprentice,” Augusta explained as an aside to me, “and I want to be thorough . . . although sometimes I do find it a test of my patience. Perhaps that was why I was given this opportunity.”
“And what do you usually do when you’re not filling in for someone else?” I asked.
Augusta whisked off her large pink polka-dotted apron and hung it on the back of the pantry door. “Tend strawberries,” she said. “Acres and acres of them. And sometimes I help with the flowers. Oh, you should see our flower fields, Kate! We’ve every blossom known to man, and many that aren’t.”
I told her I’d like to see them, but hoped it wouldn’t be any time soon.
“Tell me about your family,” Augusta said when we finished putting away the dishes. Penelope had gone outside to water my mother’s petunias—a fairly uncomplicated task, I hoped, and the two of us watched from the window seat in the family room adjoining the kitchen. “My notes are rather sketchy, I’m afraid, as this was a bit of a last-minute assignment, and I’d really like to know more.”
I watched as she dug a small notebook from what must have been the very bottom of a large tapestry bag, then groped again for a pencil.
“Uncle Ernest is my grandmother’s older brother,” I explained. “His home is where we always have our reunions—I guess because it was where most of them grew up. We call his place Bramblewood, and that’s pretty much what it is—a lot of woods and brambles. A trail that follows the Yadkin River winds along about a mile or so behind it and has always been popular with hikers.”
Augusta nodded but didn’t write anything down. “Your uncle Ernest,” she said, “does he have a large family?”
“No children, if that’s what you mean. Married once, but it didn’t work out. He has some peculiar habits, I guess. Likes his napkin folded in a certain way, eats a soft-boiled egg every morning for breakfast and has a fit if you mess up his newspaper—things like that. Sort of keeps to himself, although I hear he’s been seeing somebody lately. He’s retired now, but Uncle Ernest taught science for years at a small college over in Boone, and wrote a bunch of textbooks nobody read unless they had to, but I’ve always gotten along with him fine.” I smiled. “When I was little, he made me a tiny water wheel to spin in the creek, and he knows all about trees and plants.”
Now and then Augusta made brief notes as I told her about Marge and her family, then Cousin Violet and Ma Maggie. “And then there’s Uncle Lum, my mother’s younger brother, and his wife, Leona. They have a son, Grady, who’s a little older than I am.” I couldn’t bring myself to admit I was related to Deedee, but I was sure she’d find out in time.
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Marge called a few minutes later to tell me Josie was fine and if it was all right with me, she’d like to take her swimming at the local pool with the boys. “Ma Maggie says they’re ordering barbecue for everybody tonight, so why don’t I just meet you there later this afternoon?”
I said that would be okay and went to find something cool and comfortable to wear. Our main dinner, a covered-dish affair usually eaten picnic style under the big white oaks in my uncle’s yard, would be later in the week, so it seemed Uncle Ernest was taking the easy way out tonight. Remembering Ella’s attempts at cooking, I was grateful. The last time we were here she made a pound cake and forgot the eggs. It weighed a lot more than a pound!
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“Cuz! Thank God you got here before Deedee! Let’s you and me cut outta here and give the Serpent Lady the slip.” Grady Roundtree jumped up from his seat on Uncle Ernest’s front steps and hurried to open the door of my car.
I returned his hug, as glad to see him as he was me. “I’d almost forgotten we called her that,” I said, referring to our nickname for Deedee, who frequently “spoke with forked tongue.” “I’d love to escape, but first let me speak to Uncle Ernest and your parents. Have you been here long?”
“Mom and Dad got here in time for lunch, poor chumps. You’d think they’d know by now! I drove from Chattanooga; been here less than an hour,” he said.
I glanced at my cousin as we started inside together. Still youthfully handsome at thirty, he had been engaged three times, but somehow always managed to wiggle out before the invitations were mailed. His mother, my aunt Leona, seemed to think it was because he never got over Beverly.
Beverly Briscoe and I had been best friends growing up, and she was sixteen when she started dating Grady, then in his sophomore year at Appalachian State. The relationship lasted until Bev went off to college and decided she wanted to see other people. I remembered when she broke the news to Grady during Christmas break. He was so despondent, it just about ruined the holidays for the rest of us, and as far as I know, my cousin didn’t date anyone for over a year after that.
Then, this past winter, the two had renewed their interest in each other when Beverly, currently working on her doctorate at a university in Pennsylvania, telephoned Grady out of the blue. She planned to come back to North Carolina after completing the requirements for her degree, she said, and just wanted to touch base. After that, the two kept in touch almost daily by e-mail and telephone, and everyone thought they might resume their romance until Beverly was suddenly killed in an accident in February. The roads had been slick from a recent rain, and Beverly’s brakes were said to have failed as she tried to maneuver a treacherous curve near her home.
Beverly had seemed more sure of herself when I’d seen her at a party the Christmas before while we were both home for the holidays. We’d chatted briefly, but people were milling around a crowded room, drifting from group to group, and she had left before we had a chance to say more than a few words. I wished now that we’d spent more time together.
“I’m so sorry about Beverly,” I said, touching his arm. “I wanted to come for the funeral, but Josie had the flu and Ned was out of town. “I wish—well, I wish things could’ve worked out differently.”
My cousin squeezed my hand but didn’t answer.
“So, where is old Ned?” Grady said finally. “Hiding out on the golf course?”
“Big conference in California,” I told him. Enough for now; he’d find out soon enough. “Said to tell you hi.” A lie. Although he never admitted it, I knew my husband resented Grady Roundtree, the closeness of our relationship. He needn’t have, but I didn’t tell him that.
A huge porch lined with rocking chairs stretched across the front of the house, and my uncle’s old collie, Amos, slept on the flagstones in front of the door so that we had to step over him to get inside. Ivy clung to the six stone columns, cooling the porch, as well as the interior of the house, so that it felt almost chilly even on a hot July day. The living room was large and shabby with threadbare rugs, overstuffed furniture with fat, shiny arms and hardwood floors I’m told were once beautiful. It smelled of old ashes from the huge stone fireplace. Uncle Ernest, who sat in his favorite brown club chair by the empty grate, smelled of Old Spice and bourbon. He reached for my hand, and his smile turned to a frown. “Kathryn. You look thin. Are you taking care of yourself?”
I kissed his cheek, taut and tan as an army tent. “Had to get ready for the swimsuit season,” I said, speaking louder than usual, and he nodded, although I don’t think he heard me. My uncle’s hair had always reminded me of a wire brush, but today I noticed it didn’t look as bristly as usual, and he’d finally replaced those awful black rims on his glasses. If I didn’t know better, I’d never guess he would soon be seventy-six.
“This good old mountain air will build up your appetite,” he said, moving his feet to make room for me on the lopsided hassock.
Fine. As long as I don’t have to eat Ella’s cooking, I thought, looking around for the housekeeper.
“Leona’s out in the kitchen looking for some kind of rabbit food,” Uncle Ernest said, following my gaze. “I think Lum went out back to see if he could find any ripe tomatoes.”
“But I thought we were having barbecue tonight.” My stomach wanted to turn around and go home. I thought of Augusta’s light-as-clouds pancakes.
My uncle laid aside a book heavy enough to give you a hernia, and I could tell by the dog-eared pages he probably knew most of it by heart. “Barbecue? Oh, we are! You’ll have to thank your uncle Lum for that. Leona was planning to feed us something with frozen vegetables and imitation cheese.” He made a face. “Thank God he put a stop to that! Leona’s in a snit, I reckon—can’t be helped. Why don’t you go see if you can’t mellow her up a bit?”
I said I’d try, although I thought that was more in Grady’s line. He’d been wrapping his mama around his finger so long, she oughta have a shape like a corkscrew, but he had disappeared upstairs.
I got a whiff of Aunt Leona’s Misty Glade perfume and followed my nose to the kitchen where I found her standing on a stool with her head inside a cabinet. She turned when she heard me enter and almost toppled off her perch.
“Whoa!” I rushed to steady her. “You taking inventory?”
“No, but somebody should. I don’t know when’s the last time Ella’s cleaned these cabinets. I was looking for some pickles to go in my egg salad, but all I could find was a jar of olives, and no telling how long that’s been in there.” My aunt accepted my hand as she stepped down. In spite of her exploration into Ella’s dusty realm, Leona’s crisp, white blouse remained spotless, and her blue Barbie-size slacks had creases sharp enough to slice you in two.
“Olives should still be okay,” I said, turning my head to avoid the cloying Misty Glade.
Aunt Leona’s expression told me she’d sooner eat river mud and she muttered something about fat and calories.
“Saw Grady out front,” I said. “Looks great. The big city must agree with him.” My cousin had moved up a couple of rungs in his company when he accepted a position in Chattanooga the year before.
She nodded, pride beaming from every pore. She and Uncle Lum had adopted Grady when he was eight and slathered so much attention on him, it’s a wonder he hadn’t turned out rotten through and through. But he hadn’t, and I’d been grateful during our growing-up years for an ally against the obnoxious Deedee.
“I just wish he’d settle down now. It’s time.” Aunt Leona got eggs from the refrigerator and set them to boil.
“Is he seeing anybody special?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. Especially after what happened to Beverly. Grady thought—well, we all thought something might come of that.”
“A shame he didn’t go up there to see her,” I said. My mother had told me the two only communicated from a distance.
“Maybe he was afraid of being hurt again. I know he must regret it now, but I think Grady wanted to give things a little more time—didn’t want to rush things.”
“Aunt Leona, that was . . . what . . . eleven years ago, and Beverly was only eighteen when they stopped seeing each other!”
“Shh! Keep your voice down,” my aunt warned. “Wouldn’t want him to hear us. Grady doesn’t like to talk about it.”
My aunt had put eggs on to boil and the sulfur smell was now competing with Misty Glade. I stepped back as far as I could, trying not to be obvious.
“Well, I found a couple, but I’m afraid the worms got to them first.” The screen door slammed as Uncle Lum wandered in from the back porch and set two tomatoes on the counter. He squinted at me from under the brim of his canvas hat. “Kate! It’s good to see you, sugar. I’d hug you, but it’s a mite sticky out there, and the mosquitoes about chewed me up. If Uncle Ernest doesn’t start using some kind of insect control, they’re gonna carry him off.” He nodded toward the living room. “You seen him yet?”
I grinned. “In there buried in a book.”
“One of those tomes about the War Between the States, I guess,” my uncle said. “Bet he’s read just about everything written on the subject.” He peered into the pot of eggs and rolled his eyes at me behind Aunt Leona’s back. “Maybe he’s trying to find out where Great-great-great-granddaddy Templeton hid that Confederate gold.”
“Columbus Roundtree, you big silly! Your great . . . whatever-granddaddy never hid any gold around here.” Leona tied a faded apron about her twenty-two-inch waist and set vinegar and mustard on the counter with a double thunk.
“Makes a darn good story, though. Besides, how do you know he didn’t?” Uncle Lum winked at me.
“Grady and I dug holes all over the place looking for that gold when we were little,” I said. “Uncle Ernest told us it was buried out behind the house. I think he just wanted us to dig a place for him to plant tomatoes!”
“Which reminds me, if we’re going to have tomatoes with that barbecue tonight, I’d better run down to the J and G and see if Jim has any local produce.” Uncle Lum made it a point not to glance at his wife, who shuddered slightly as the mention of barbecue.
My aunt decided to clean out the cabinets, and since I wanted no part of that, I slipped quietly out of the kitchen. Uncle Ernest was engrossed in his book, so I wandered out to the porch where Grady lay back in a rocker, hands across his stomach, with the dog at his feet.
“It’s a shame you can’t relax,” I said, pulling up a chair beside him.
He immediately jumped to his feet. “Hey, don’t sit down! Uncle Ernest tells me Deedee and family are on their way. Let’s go down by Webster’s wall and see if the blackberries are ripe.”
Webster Templeton was our ancestor who was supposed to have buried the gold—or so Cousin Violet claims, and the crumbling stone walls of what was left of his house was a favorite berry-picking spot.
I grabbed a pail from the back porch and scooted myself with insect repellent, glad I had worn long pants that day. “Maybe Ella will make us one of her famous blackberry cobblers,” I said, referring to the time the housekeeper forgot the sugar, as we made our way along the familiar path.
Grady made a gagging noise. “I hope you’ve learned to cook. Mom’s gotten to where she doesn’t even buy sugar anymore.”
“You furnish the blackberries; I’ll take care of the cobbler,” I assured him. “And where is Ella anyway? Did you know your mother is in there cleaning out her cabinets?”
My cousin groaned. “I doubt if she’ll even notice. You’ll have to admit they probably need it, and Ella’s getting too old to stand on ladders and scrub those high shelves. Hadn’t seen her lately, but she was looking for her cat right after I got here. Said it got out somehow.”
The housekeeper always kept her cat, Dagwood, in her own part of the house. The animal was afraid, she claimed, of Amos the collie, but frankly, I think it was the other way around.
I was relieved to find the path wasn’t as overgrown with weeds as I had expected. Someone—probably Casey, the writer-caretaker—had mown it recently and the air smelled of freshly cut grass. I took a deep breath, glad to be relaxing in the company of an old friend in a dear, familiar place.
We found a treasure of ripe berries tumbling over the ruined foundations of the old house and soon had the pail almost full.
“So, who else is coming?” Grady asked, popping a couple of blackberries into his mouth.
I was sure he must have guessed there was a problem between Ned and me, and was waiting for me to explain, but I wasn’t ready. Not yet, anyway.
“Ma Maggie, of course, then Marge and Burdette and their bunch. Josie’s with them at the pool . . . Deedee and Cynthia . . . and I guess Parker will be here, too.” Deedee was married to a perfectly nice man who seemed to think she was normal, or if he didn’t, he accepted her the way she was. Lucky Deedee!
“And Cousin Violet,” I added, smiling. It was hard not to smile at the mention of our eccentric relative.
Grady untangled himself from a briar. “She still painting everything that doesn’t move?”
“As far as I know. Mama says she’s painted her porch furniture three times this year.” It had always been a family joke that if you stood still long enough, Violet would have a go at you with her paintbrush.
“Let’s go home the other way,” I suggested after the pail was full. “Maybe we’ll find some early apples in the old orchard.” The pathway looped from the ruins of the earlier house, past Remeth churchyard, then meandered above the river for a while before circling what once had been an apple orchard within sight of our uncle’s place. It was farther that way, but the trees would give more shade, and my shirt was already sticking to me.
“Have you met the new girlfriend?” I asked as we started back.
“Whose new girlfriend?”
“Uncle Ernest’s. Belinda somebody. Marge says they seem to have a thing going.”
“First a horse, and now a romance! What’s up with Uncle Ernest lately?”
“What horse?” I asked.
“Why, Shortcake! Haven’t you seen her? Strawberry roan and wild as a mountain lion. Won’t let anybody near her.
“Now, tell me about this Belinda,” Grady said. “Do you think she’ll show up for the reunion?”
But I didn’t have a chance to answer because we heard somebody moaning just then, and it seemed to be coming from a nearby ravine.