Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The garden felt like stepping inside a Monet painting.
Iris Grove staff had lined up three rows of white, fold-down chairs on the lawn in front of the large redwood pergola.
On either side, there were sweet bushes full of red tulips, African marigolds, white zinnias, and pink roses, all meticulously pruned and offset by a perimeter of tall, sharply angled hedges.
Brinton stood a few feet behind the last row of chairs as women in groups of twos and threes filed in, followed by a few grumpy grandpa-types she assumed were their husbands.
She had planned to watch the performance from this vantage to avoid drawing too much attention to herself.
After all, this concert was for Jamie’s mamaw, not her.
Emma Lou was seated in the first row and motioned for Brinton to join her. Most of the seats were filled now, but Emma Lou patted the sole empty one beside hers. Brinton’s anxious heart thawed a little. She couldn’t say no.
Brinton snaked through the crowd, but as she was about to sit, another older woman plopped down instead. She wore a violently pink floral maxi dress, and her severe pixie haircut screamed “I would like to speak to the manager.”
“Thanks for saving me a seat, Emma Lou,” the woman quipped through a pert Tennessean accent. “I’d never miss Jamie play. Who knows, one day I might become your granddaughter.” She unleashed a spiraling, wheezing laugh. The portly man beside her cringed.
“Good morning, Cheryl,” Emma Lou said, her tone like honey with a little vinegar splashed in. “I do apologize, but this seat is taken.”
“Oh, that’s fine, Emma Lou,” Brinton squeaked. “I’m good in the back—”
Emma Lou’s palm floated over the chair. “Oh, no such thing. Your seat is right here.”
“And who are you?” Cheryl asked, winded from all the self-indulgence.
She twisted her thin red lips as she mused to herself.
“Oh, my mistake. You must be staff. I heard we’re getting some new girls in housekeeping.
You’re gonna need something to pull back all that—” Cheryl reached out to snatch one of Brinton’s errant braids, which had slipped over her shoulder, but Brinton swiftly flicked it back.
Ah, there’s that Southern Hospitality I’ve been bracing for.
The last thing Brinton wanted was to embarrass Emma Lou. But she didn’t endure all that she had to be racially profiled in a rose garden on a Saturday morning.
Brinton started to speak, but Emma Lou grabbed her hand.
“Her name is Brinton, and she’s writing a wonderful story about Jamie for Landmark.
If you aren’t otherwise engaged in indelicate conversation at the Piggly Wiggly, you should read it.
And if you make one snide comment to or about Miss Brinton to anyone in this town, I’ll ensure you’re served nothing but pigeon peas and saltines until the New Year.
I trust you know I’m friendly with Chef Roberts and all of our hardworking staff.
Do you understand me clearly? Because if I have to repeat myself, I promise, I won’t be so polite. ”
Cheryl’s lips stretched into a pained yet obsequious grin. Slowly, she rose from the chair. “Well, I better take my seat. I see they’ve added a few more in the back. Nice meeting you, Brinton. And good to see you, Emma Lou.”
“I’ll see you at church tomorrow morning,” Emma Lou said, her smile real and triumphant.
Brinton took her seat. When Cheryl was out of earshot, Emma Lou leaned in and whispered, “There are three Bs in this world I can’t stand: bullies, busybodies, and bigots. Cheryl McClain found a way to be all three.”
Emma Lou patted Brinton’s knee, and gratefully, Brinton sandwiched her hand on top and squeezed. Moments later, Jamie stepped onto the pergola, an acoustic guitar strapped around his shoulders. He launched into the jangly opening chords of “Table for One.”
The intimate crowd cheered as he sang, pitch-perfect and powerful despite no microphone or amplifiers.
And when he hit the soaring chorus, Brinton could only marvel.
She’d seen him perform in various social media posts, but watching Jamie in the flesh was simply electrifying.
Her eyes refused to blink and lungs declined to exhale.
Brinton couldn’t contain all the feelings he summoned in her. One day, she knew, they could swell into something more…permanent. Admittedly, that was a huge step. While she wasn’t there yet, she longed for it just the same.
She already adored how he made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t before. She adored that he made her feel safe enough to second-guess her fears. She adored that he graciously gave back to the people he cared about, including a discerning group of senior citizens.
She adored him.
“Thank y’all so much,” Jamie said, politely motioning for the rowdy seniors to simmer down. “I’ve got one more, a new one nobody’s ever heard before…because I wrote it a few days ago.”
Brinton beamed. That meant Jamie was sharing a song that he—not a ghostwriter—wrote. His fresh start. This was why he’d brought her there. Jamie looked nervous, which she certainly understood. She’d rather sacrifice herself to the 6 Train rats than unearth her most intimate feelings.
“This song is dedicated to the most important women in my life, my late mother, MaryBell Crawford. And my mamaw—who y’all know and love as much as I do—Emma Lou Chambers,” he said.
His eyes once again locked on Brinton’s. She swallowed hard.
“And another extraordinary woman who inspired me to be brave enough to put all this into words. Bee, you inspire me every day. This one’s called ‘Guiding Light.’”
Brinton melted right on the spot. Perceptively, Emma Lou tipped her head on her shoulder.
He strummed the opening chords, the sweetness of a lullaby, with storytelling enlivened by unspeakable loss and perseverance. His eyes latched onto Brinton’s as he sang the buoyant chorus.
When I look to the sky each night, you’re my guiding light.
As soon as Jamie finished, the crowd of old folks swarmed him. He was attentive to each person, took his time, making them feel like he was as lucky to have the experience. Brinton never saw herself being so open to the world, but watching him made her want to try.
“Let’s head back for a drink,” Emma Lou said. “Some tea? Or something stronger?”
Back in Emma Lou’s living room, Brinton settled into the tufted blue plaid couch.
Like the kitchen, family photos covered every inch of wall space.
On the white rattan table beside her, Brinton recognized a picture of a young Jamie, still adorable while missing a front tooth, smiling with his parents on the dock at Crawford Lake.
She picked up the silver frame, tracing a finger over Jamie’s exuberant face.
Emma Lou triumphantly strolled in with two ice-cold mimosas in champagne flutes.
“That has to be my favorite photo of them,” Emma Lou said, handing Brinton a glass.
Brinton replaced the photo on the table. “I bet it’s hard to choose one.” They clinked their glasses and took a sip.
“You know, I’m so happy Jamie brought you today. You remind me of my daughter, God rest her soul.”
“I am so sorry for your loss,” Brinton said softly, hoping to show she meant it with every breath she took. “Jamie told me a little about her. Would you be open to talking about her for my article?”
Emma Lou nodded. Brinton retrieved her recorder from her purse, turned it on, and set it on the side table.
“She was a special woman. A little fiery—she was my daughter, after all—but so soulful. I think there’s a lot of her in Jamie too.
People think it’s an easy road because of who his daddy is.
But the more successful Jamie’s daddy got, the harder it was for him to keep the family together.
My daughter refused to raise her son on tour buses, or in airports, or hotel rooms. And bless him, but Jamie’s daddy didn’t fully understand what she was going through with her…
mental health. Nobody knew what she felt in that big house, alone, save for a small child. ”
Emma Lou tightly clasped her hands in her lap.
“My baby struggled, but she loved that boy until her last breath. I know Jamie and his daddy’s relationship ain’t perfect.
A lot of it has to do with all the answers we’ll never get about what happened that fateful night.
But she lives on in Jamie. I see it every time he picks up that guitar. ”