18. Chapter Seventeen #2
From the kitchen, I heard her voice before I saw her.
“Brady, where are your manners? You know better than to shout indoors.”
She stood at the refrigerator, tall and poised, pulling out a pitcher. Her hair was an elegant swirl of blonde and white, twisted into a chignon. But her eyes—steely blue, sharp—didn’t warm at our arrival.
I was quietly relieved they weren’t Brady blue.
She closed the refrigerator with practiced grace and stepped toward the counter near us, eyes sweeping over the cake—and me.
Brady set the cake down on the counter. “Momma, this is Ellie.”
“I know who she is,” she snapped.
With that warm welcome, I wasn’t sure where to go. So all I said was, “Hello, Mrs. Jackson.” I tried to keep it friendly and light. Maybe I should have said, “It is nice to see you again,” but everyone would know that was a big fat lie.
“Hello,” she grumbled, looking me over from head to toe.
Her gaze landed on my red shoes. From the way she sneered, it appeared she took issue with them.
She herself was more conservatively dressed in camel-colored pants and a black turtleneck with black flats.
She looked very motherly, at least in dress.
Her facial expression was more along the lines of a serial killer.
Please don’t let me become the subject of a true-crime documentary. I wasn’t sure I lit up a room when I entered.
Brady motioned toward the cake. “Ellie made dessert for us.”
“Well, I had some help,” I made sure to say so, not to give the impression I possessed any skills in the kitchen.
She didn’t even glance at it. “Your daddy and I rarely eat dessert,” she said as if she were claiming some moral victory. “It’s unhealthy.”
“Well, then, let this be one of those nights,” Brady not so subtly suggested.
She said nothing, which left us in uncomfortable silence.
“Mrs. Jackson, is there something I can help you with?” I forced myself to ask.
“No.” Her response was clipped and final. She turned to Brady. “Your daddy’s already in the dining room. Why don’t you go and see him.”
She didn’t have to ask us twice. We turned and strode out.
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” Brady whispered as we walked into the hall and toward the dining room.
I shrugged, at least happy to be away from his momma for a moment. “I expected it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“It is what it is.” I paused, surprised to hear a beautiful melody floating in the air almost ethereally. “Is someone playing the piano?”
“My daddy plays,” he said, to my surprise.
“Really?” I had no idea.
“Yes.”
All I could think was, had he ever played for my Aunt Lu? If he had, I knew she would have loved it. And the thought broke my heart.
When we stepped into the Jacksons’ formal dining room—and I did mean formal —it felt like I’d wandered onto the set of a Regency drama.
High ceilings crowned with ornate plaster molding, a gleaming chandelier dripping in crystal, and a polished mahogany table that could comfortably seat twelve.
The walls were covered in rich ivory paneling with subtle gold leaf accents, and the china cabinet seem to sparkle.
Suddenly, I felt underdressed.
Mr. Jackson sat at the grand piano, tinkling the keys. The melody was unfamiliar but lovely. Brady and I walked toward the instrument, and his daddy looked our way. He didn’t look well at all. His skin was swallowed, and he was using oxygen.
But I was caught off guard when I noticed his eyes. They were Brady’s eyes. Blue and beautiful.
Why had I never seen that before? Maybe because I’d always been too afraid to really look at the man. The man who had caused my aunt and me so much pain.
For a moment, I realized he was a person, not just someone to hate. And from the way he studied me—curious, not angry—I wondered if he saw the same.
I traced the edge of the piano, needing something to touch. “It’s a beautiful instrument, Mr. Jackson. You play well.”
I didn’t know what else to say. The only reason I said anything was for Brady’s benefit. And I knew that if we wanted to change this town and even our families, we were going to have to take the first step. And honestly, hate had never gotten us anywhere.
Mr. Jackson tilted his head, silent and watchful. It was unnerving, to say the least, especially when he didn’t respond.
“You know, Ellie plays, too, and she has a beautiful voice,” Brady said.
Whether it was his health or old grudges, the reply took effort. “I think I remember you mentioning that,” he rasped.
Already, this was kinder than his wife. Which was surprising. The last contact I had with them was in Pastor Norton’s office, where his momma came off as weak and his daddy came off as bold and overbearing. Thinking back now, I think his momma was putting on an act.
“Ellie, you should play and sing something for us,” Brady said, shocking the heck out of me. I knew he was trying to break the ice, but I was just hoping for some small talk about the weather or the holidays
I gave him a strained, please let’s not make this any more uncomfortable smile. “Um, I don’t know . . . I haven’t really practiced in quite a while.” And I was sure it was the last thing his daddy wanted.
But before I knew it, the unexpected happened. Mr. Jackson slid over on the piano bench as if asking me to join him.
What in the world? Did hell just freeze over?
I stood, frozen, unsure of what to do.
Meanwhile, Brady’s eyes lit up like I’d just told him I’d marry him at the courthouse Monday morning. He placed his hand on my lower back and guided me to the bench.
I knew what this meant to him. To us. But I wasn’t expecting a literal front-row seat to Mr. Jackson or to put on a show. However, I didn’t want to disappoint Brady.
I lowered myself onto the bench and smiled warily at Mr. Jackson. “Uh. Any requests?” I said half-jokingly.
Mr. Jackson put some sheet music up in front of me, like he’d been waiting for this moment. Not just any piece of music. I had to stop myself from gasping. It was “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. The same song my aunt had sung in the talent show she told me about, the one where Mr. Jackson noticed her.
Why would he choose that song? Did he still think about my aunt? About their time together?
I wanted to ask him, but as that would be in poor taste, I went with it. I decided to focus on Brady. “I haven’t performed in a while, so no teasing.”
“You’re going to do great, darlin’. You always do.”
I wasn’t so sure, given my nerves and how closely I sat next to the man I assumed abhorred me. But I carried on doing a couple of scales first to get used to the feel of their piano. It was a little tight, but workable.
With a deep breath of what in the heck was I doing, I began.
As I played the piano solo at the beginning, I thought, I was a little crazy.
I had to put my ancient sight-reading skills to use to sing and play the correct notes.
While I played, I couldn’t help but think about my aunt the entire time.
What this song meant to her. To Mr. Jackson.
I dared a peek at him while I sang and played and almost faltered. I swore there was a misty sheen in his eyes. I knew then, even after all this time, my aunt meant something to him.
Why had he cheated on her? I wasn’t sure I would ever know. Maybe it was best if I didn’t find out.
My performance wasn’t perfect, but it was passable. When I sang my last note, Brady clapped like I’d given the performance of a lifetime. You had to love a guy like that. And I did. I had since I was a girl.
I knew what people say about young love: That it doesn’t last, and it’s naive. It was naive, but that was the beauty of it. It was pure, raw, and unafraid. It made you believe the impossible was possible. That was the kind of love Brady and I had. Although, I admitted to being afraid.
Afraid of sitting next to the man on the piano bench. Afraid of what he and his wife could do to Brady and me.
That fear had me wanting to leap off the bench, but then a cold, soft hand landed on my arm.
I whipped my head in Mr. Jackson’s direction. There was no judgment, no ire, just a deep sadness in his blue eyes.
“You sound like—” he croaked.
He didn’t get to finish his thought.
Mommy Dearest did not like the scene in front of her at all. She blew in like an F5 tornado, clenching her fists, with a face red enough that I swore she was going to breathe fire out of her nose at any moment.
If looks could kill, I would be dead on arrival.
I jumped off the bench and sought refuge in Brady’s waiting arms.
He wrapped me up tight. “Beautiful and talented. I’m the luckiest of men,” he whispered in my ear.
I think we both were trying to ignore the woman who bore him. To be honest, she scared me. In fact, I think she kind of scared Brady and Mr. Jackson, too.
“Dinner’s ready,” she announced sharp and flat.
Brady let go, took my hand, and led me toward the elegantly set table—each step uneasy, like walking across eggshells.
Behind us, Mr. Jackson slowly rose, cane in hand, each movement deliberate and strained.
Brady watched him, visibly torn—wanting to help, but knowing better.
I knew how hard it must be for him to see his father in such pain. Watching Aunt Lu in the hospital had been gut-wrenching.
Brady’s parents took their places at each end of the vast table—that I could only describe as twelve feet of gleaming wood and emotional distance. Brady and I were seated precisely at midpoint, directly across from one another. The message was clear: this was no cozy family dinner.
As we settled in, a sweet-faced young maid wheeled out a cart of food. I hadn’t known they had a maid—though I supposed, technically, Aunt Lu employed a housekeeper. Still, hers never wore a crisp uniform or served meals with white gloves and fan-folded napkins.
Mrs. Jackson glanced at me with pointed hauteur as if daring me to be impressed. I smiled politely. She sneered.