Chapter 18 #2
It feels almost like waking up on Christmas morning to find this bounty of beautiful flowers in front of my house. Even though my mother always had snapdragons in the yard, I’ve clearly forgotten how gorgeous they are.
Merrily, I cross the road and climb the old steps to Grace’s house to knock on her door. It takes her a minute to get there, but she opens it to look right past me and say, “Oh, honey—your snapdragons bloomed!” That’s how vibrant they are.
“I know,” I tell her with a smile. “Aren’t they incredible?”
“Sure are. And my, don’t you just look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this mornin’!”
I’m stumped by this. “I look what?”
She just laughs. “Chipper,” she says. “Ya look chipper.” Then her gaze drops to my hands. “Whatcha got there?”
“Blackberries. And part of a cobbler I made.”
“For me? Well, now, ain’t that sweet! I’m gonna enjoy these, I am—you just wait and see.”
“I hope so. The cobbler is from Mabel’s recipe.”
“Then that’ll be an extra special treat. Might just make it my lunch today.” She winks and adds, “When ya get old, you can do that sorta thing.”
We part ways and I return to my flowers, utterly wowed by them.
I sit on the front steps, next to my petunias, enjoying the way all these bright new colors seem to punctuate the morning air.
When a striking blue butterfly trimmed in black alights on one of the pink snapdragons, I study its wings, thinking they look so delicate but must be strong to hold up amid all that flying.
I’ve never ruminated on butterflies before.
Okay, maybe woodland animals are going to start hanging out with me soon. Sydney is right—who am I?
I mean, I’m still me. I keep acting like there’s more than one me, but it’s just that new—or old—aspects of me are rising to the surface. And one part that’s undeniably rising is that I’ve simply never noticed so much beauty until now. Things truly appear different to me.
I look at Grace, an old woman, and see something beautiful. I look at Jo and see a truly beautiful woman there, too. They both have wrinkles and imperfect bodies. They are, by most people’s standards, past their prime. Yet they’re still so vibrant and unique and magnetic.
When I go inside, I’m drawn to photos I put out upon my arrival, particularly the ones of my friends.
I know Syd is a beauty, but have I ever noticed how flawless her complexion is, or the kindness in her eyes?
Have I ever seen the little freckles on Kevin’s nose that make him look more boyish than he would without them?
He and Patrick look so stoic in front of their pyramid, but I can still see the love for each other in their eyes even as they both face the camera.
I study my mom and dad then, too. My dad’s smile was infectious.
I hear his laugh in my mind, hear him talking with customers at the store, and my heart swells with the memory.
And my mother looks so gorgeous in this picture.
She didn’t think she was pretty, but she was actually a stunner.
Her dark eyes were almost hypnotizing. I wish she’d known that.
I wish I’d seen it so clearly back then, so I could have told her. But I’m happy to be seeing it now.
I’m filled with a sense of purpose as I go about the rest of my day.
Slapping on my floppy hat for sun protection, I walk toward the winery, carrying my containers in a tote bag I found in the broom closet, all along the way enjoying the wildflowers.
I spot an owl—an actual owl, for heaven’s sake!
—on a tree branch and try to take a photo, but it’s too dark.
So I just stand down below soaking in the moment, glad I happened along when I did.
I can’t help thinking, same as on the way to the berry patch, how many wonderful things aren’t seen, but they’re still there, existing, being.
Heading up the vineyard lane, I spot grapes on the vines—some purple, some green, all glistening in the sun.
When I give Jo the cobbler and berries, her eyes light up, her smile brings out a sense of youth, and I find myself wishing I’d known her for much longer than I have. She offers me wine, but I decline today—too much to do.
Back at home, I take pictures of the lost teddy bear and of some photos in the first two family albums I found. There are more in the collection now, but I have to start somewhere.
Changing over to my fedora—after all, would Joy Lynn even recognize me without it?—I hop in the car and drive to town.
First stop: Piggly Wiggly. There’s no news about the Hawkins Bible—no one coming forward to claim it—but it’s been shared, whoa, hundreds of times , and the post is overrun with comments.
The Bible’s gone viral! People find the history fascinating and the family’s loss heartbreaking even two hundred years later.
The lack of an owner for the Bible doesn’t discourage me—it’s early days yet—and I craft new posts about the items I just photographed.
I include when and where they were found, and anything else I know about them.
But I obscure the name on the bear’s foot—anyone could say it was theirs, but I’m going to need someone to tell me the name Liza.
I grab lunch at the Last Chance, the café busier today than usual, yet despite that, Joy Lynn is less frosty to me.
I see customers eating blackberry pie and wonder if the berries came from Matt, but I think better of asking.
Instead, I study the menu for something new, try the Kentucky hot brown, and fall in love.
Then I order some egg salad to go. By the time I’m departing, the place is emptier, and I make my usual trip to the jukebox, coin in hand.
All I have to do now is glance over at Joy Lynn—feeling my gaze, she looks up from where she’s wiping down the glass-front pie case and says softly, “B15.”
I insert my coin, press the letter and numbers, and watch the old vinyl record drop into place on the turntable.
“Since I Don’t Have You” begins, and I look down to see who it’s by—the Skyliners.
I turn to go, unable to quash the notion that Joy Lynn suffers from a broken heart, and I wonder who or what did the damage.
Matt? I’m not sure. This feels deep, timeworn.
Like something or someone has shattered her somewhere along the way.
But even so, and even despite her tacky appearance and often unpleasant demeanor, when I glance back from the door, she lifts her hand in a small wave, and she’s wearing a half smile that changes everything about her: her eyes, her cheeks, the shape of her face.
And for the first time, I even see the beauty in Joy Lynn.
When I pull back in the driveway at the end of Lost Valley Lane, I’m greeted by those spectacular snapdragons again, and I spot Grace out on her front porch. As I wave, she calls to me, “Honey, them blackberries was mighty tasty!”
“I’m glad.” It seems almost as if she thinks I made them myself rather than just picked them.
“Ya ever eat breakfast for dinner?” she yells.
A little out of the blue, but who doesn’t? “Absolutely!” I answer across the road.
“Why don’t ya come over tomorrow night around six. I was thinkin’ of makin’ some blackberry pancakes and it’ll be way more than I can eat myself.”
“I’d love to,” I answer with a smile. Okay, not so out of the blue after all.
The afternoon looms before me, and I’m feeling a little too happy today to go digging into lost items—it’s a worthy way to spend time, but I’m realizing I need a more balanced existence.
I decide that today I’ll find balance by grabbing another book from Mabel’s shelves—this time a paperback by JoAnn Ross with a lovely lighthouse on the cover—and enjoying the beautiful weather from the back porch.
Turns out Kevin was right—it’s a pretty idyllic reading spot and the story sweeps me away.
I don’t know how much time has passed before I hear a cute yapping noise.
When I look up to see Goldie running around her backyard, it leads to a Matt sighting as well.
We make eye contact—he smiles and starts toward me.
I’m not sorry to see him—and that’s even with the knowledge I’m not wearing a hat.
“How’s your day, Miss Jessie?” he asks in that Southern way of his.
“Pretty great, actually,” I admit.
He leans back playfully, as if stunned. “Havin’ a good day and didn’t get all bent outta shape when I called you Jessie—I musta shown up at just the right time.” Then he points to the glass of iced tea on the table next to me to ask, “Got any more of that?”
“Suppose I have enough to share,” I reply, aware that I’m not only hatless but returning his smile.
Like ... return flirting, I guess. I decide not to ruin my day by questioning it.
Or questioning that I suddenly really don’t mind him calling me Jessie.
My name. My name the first twenty years of my life, so why should I mind?
Why did I ever? I’ve felt so carefree today that I’m not going to overanalyze anything .
Then I motion inside. “Help yourself—it’s in the fridge. ”
“Reckon I will,” he says, and I play with Goldie while he’s gone.
A few days ago, I would have been more .
.. calculating about our next encounter.
I would have been trying to put distance between us, making sure he doesn’t get the idea anything is going to happen.
But now ... maybe it doesn’t feel as necessary.
I still don’t intend for anything to happen, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.
And it doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy his company for a simple glass of iced tea.
Which is a way smarter, safer beverage to be drinking with him.
A minute later, he joins me in the neighboring rocking chair and the dog bounds up onto his denim-covered thigh.
“Did you see the snapdragons?” I ask.
“Sure did.” He grins, then tosses me a wink. “Aren’t you glad I stopped ya from diggin’ up perfectly good flowers?”
“I never expected them to be so many different colors and shades.”
“They cross-pollinate when they reseed,” he explains. “Never know what you’re gonna get out there. To tell ya the truth, since Mabel passed and the reseedin’ took over, I kinda enjoy seein’ what pops up each summer.”
As he mindlessly nuzzles Goldie, I observe, “You still don’t seem like a Yorkie man to me.”
At this, he lets out a laugh. “I wasn’t—until I was.
” When he drops his gaze to her cute little face and then looks back at me, I realize he’s going to tell me more than the last time I brought this up.
“She was my Aunt Rita’s. When she passed a few years ago, I was put in charge of finding Little Miss Golden Paws here a good home.
Local fella named Darnell Henry took her—his wife wanted a little lap dog—but then she killed one of his chickens. ”
I gasp.
“That’s right—Goldie here’s got a dark side.”
“Oh my God, Goldie,” I hear myself lecturing the adorable dog, who I can’t even imagine being a murderer, “why did you do that?”
“Darnell thought she was friendly with the chickens and just liked playin’ with ’em—but terriers were bred as huntin’ dogs, so there ya have it.
I took her back ... and then my daughter fell in love with her and I couldn’t get rid of her.
And even though I’m the one who does all the dog parenting around here .
..” He glances down at her again. “Can’t really imagine my life without the little goofball now. ”
As I reach across the table between us to scratch Goldie’s head, Matt says, “Sometimes life has a way of forcin’ things on us that turn out to be the best gifts of all.”