I looked to what I was doing at the counter.
But I did it muttering, “Whatever.”
She chuckled quietly.
As for me, I smiled at the counter.
Huge.
Somehow Deacon had made it all right.
I shouldn’t have worried.
I should have believed.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Not ever.
Because my man could do anything.
*
It was snowing, late afternoon, skies gray, when Deacon pulled up to the curb outside the tidy, little house on a sweet street in Iowa.
He didn’t even stop before the door opened and a woman’s body filled it.
This wasn’t surprising. In the hotel that we’d checked into forty-five minutes ago, he’d made the call to tell them we were in town and he wanted to see them.
He suggested dinner at a restaurant that evening.
His mother had told him to come immediately.
We’d come immediately.
As I heard Deacon’s door open, I watched the woman walk out onto the porch, a man followed her, more people were inside.
His sister, maybe.
I pushed my door open and Deacon was there when I jumped out.
He closed the door for me, grabbed my hand, and guided me to the walk.
I took in deep breaths as I saw them, his parents, his sister, a man hanging back in the house, a little boy at his side, leaning against his dad’s leg, a toddler in the curve of the man’s arm.
Deacon’s nephew and niece, both he’d never met.
Deacon let my hand go halfway up the steps that were nearly covered with empty pots awaiting spring flowers, making the ascent awkward for two people.
He didn’t let me go because of that.
He let me go because his mother was losing it. It was plain to see.
And when he hit the porch, she lost it.
I stopped moving one step down.
She rushed him, rolling up on her toes, her hands clasping his cheeks, and stood still, silent tears streaming down her face.
The same happened to me.
“My boy,” she forced out in a voice cracked and scratchy.
“Yeah, Mom,” Deacon replied gently, lifting one of his hands to cup her cheek.
“My boy,” she repeated, lost the silent, and sobbed.
Deacon folded her in his arms, bending his head deep to put his lips to her hair, and he whispered to her words I couldn’t hear.
She clutched him harder.
I concentrated all my efforts on not making a fool of myself and losing it too by letting loose ugly, sloppy tears.
“Got someone I want you to meet,” Deacon said, his voice now louder. “So you gotta let me go so I can introduce you to the woman who brought me back, Mom.”
She nodded, took her time letting him go, and turned to me, wiping her face.
“Mom, meet my Cassie,” Deacon introduced.
I forced a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Gates.”
“I…you…” She sucked in an audible breath and invited, “Call me Rosalie.”
I kept smiling. “I’d be delighted.”
Her face started crumbling so I rushed up the steps and took her in my arms.
She clasped on tight.
I looked around her and saw Deacon shaking hands with his dad, his dad’s eyes glued to his son’s, his other hand lifted and thumping Deacon on his arm. Then his expression shifted, melting, and I watched Deacon tighten their hold so he jerked his father to him until they were hands clasped between them, arms around each other.
“Home, Dad.” I heard Deacon mutter.
Another quiet sob burst from the woman in my arms.
“Yeah, boy. Good. Good you’re home,” his father replied, voice thick, now pounding him on the back.
“Sweetheart, let’s take this inside,” the man in the door suggested and Deacon’s sister moved.
She got us inside and the door barely closed before she fell into her brother’s arms, bursting into the tears she held through the earlier reunions. So that was when Deacon bent his head and talked into her hair too.
I met his dad, Lou, his brother-in-law, Chet, his four-year-old nephew, Chandler, two-year-old niece, Pearl, and when she let Deacon go, I met his sister, Rebecca.
We had coffee in the kitchen.
Through this, Deacon disappeared into the living room, first with his parents. Then with his sister and brother-in-law.
They seemed calmer after that was over, settling into relieved, and reaching toward happy.
I wasn’t surprised at this. Deacon could do anything.
It wasn’t until much later, after dinner that started stilted then, mostly because I was part-lunatic, ended up with people laughing, it happened.
I was at the sink in the kitchen with Rosalie doing dinner dishes, Rebecca moving around the room, putting away the plates I was drying.
“I don’t know what you did, but I’m glad you did it,” she told her hands in the water in a voice so quiet, I barely caught it.
But I caught it.
“I just loved him,” I replied, not as quietly since I wanted her to hear me.
She looked to me and I knew it was the wrong thing to say.
“I loved him too.”
“Mom,” Rebecca got close and joined in our quiet-speak. “You know what she means.”