6. Jack #2
“Mr. James, it’s a pleasure,” I said. “Thank you for having me.”
“Gus is fine. And you’ll sleep in separate bedrooms. That’s how we do it here.”
I nodded. “Gus. I wouldn’t think otherwise, sir.”
“You hit any traffic?” Gus asked.
“No, sir. We had a nice drive. Took us two hours, but we had to stop for your daughter’s favorite barbecue on the way.”
“Wally’s, sure. That used to be what Ivy always asked for on her birthday,” Gus said.
One corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Maybe the ghost of one.
June was pretty in that effortless way some women are.
Slim and graceful, wearing jeans and a soft green shirt, her face bare except for what looked like a little lip color.
She stepped closer and placed cool, dry hands on the sides of my face, peering into my eyes hard enough that my intestines might have rearranged themselves.
“Jack Wilder in the flesh. I thought you’d be shorter. ”
“You did?” I managed. She was so close she was crushing the lilies in the bouquet, which had them unleashing pollen that I felt certain was going to make me sneeze and scare half the county.
She dropped her hands from my face to my shoulders, still taking me in with eyes the color of a hazy summer sky. “I sure did. I thought they made everyone look taller on TV, and you’d be short like the Mission: Impossible actor in real life.”
“Mama, it depends on who you’re standing next to on stage,” Ivy said. “Jack’s band members are all freakishly large.”
“Well, now, freakish might be stretching it,” I said. “But yeah, none of us are what you’d call dainty.”
I realized I was still holding the flowers. “These are for you.”
June’s face lit up like she’d just noticed them. “Well, isn’t that kind of you. Thank you, Jack.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two men coming from the barn.
“Beau! Caleb!” Ivy shouted, running toward them.
I knew from photos which was which. They were twins but fraternal.
Beau was blond, with a big smile and mischievous green eyes.
The clown of the family Ivy had told me, always trying to make their mother laugh.
He was a firefighter and paramedic, and it showed in the breadth of his shoulders and chest. He wore jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a white cowboy hat.
Caleb, according to Ivy, was the intense one.
He built houses for a living and from the look of him he did a lot of the manual labor himself.
After hugging Ivy, he came forward, thrusting out his hand.
“Caleb. Nice to meet you.” Similarly to his mother, he looked deep into my soul with eyes nearly identical to hers from under his brown cowboy hat.
“Same,” I said, forcing myself not to break eye contact.
Beau held out his hand, smiling, dimples appearing on both sides of his mouth. He wore a straw cowboy hat pushed back on his head, a denim shirt open at the throat, and possessed the kind of grin that had probably gotten him forgiven for a lifetime of bad ideas.
“We’ve heard a lot about you,” Beau said. “And by a lot I mean you’re all she talks about, all she texts about. We feel like we know you much too well for never having laid an eye on you.”
“Hush now,” Ivy said, slipping her hand into mine. “You’re going to make me sound like a stalker.”
“Nothing wrong with being in love,” Gus said. “Unless you take advantage, and then I’ll have to take you out to the woodshed.” He smiled, but I had a feeling he wasn’t entirely joking.
“Jack’s tall,” June said to her sons. “Which I didn’t see coming.”
“Same,” Beau said. “I thought you’d be like Tom Cruise. Small enough for a James’s brother’s shirt pocket.”
“Yet here he is, looking like a real man and not just one he plays on TV.” Mother and son exchanged a glance that told me volumes about their relationship. He lived to make her laugh, and she lived to laugh at whatever came out of his mouth.
“Come on in,” June said. “I’ve got iced tea and some fancy cheese.”
“I love fancy cheese,” Beau said, taking his mother’s arm.
“It was on sale,” June said.
“Course it was,” Beau said.
“It’s stinky, but it tastes mighty good,” June said.
We climbed the porch steps, boards creaking beneath our boots.
The porch ran the length of the house, deep and shaded, with white railings, two rocking chairs, a porch swing, hanging ferns, and an old wooden bench that had probably held countless muddy boots, grocery sacks, and children.
The front door stood open, screen door latched against the frame.
From inside came the smell of roasted chicken and yeast rolls.
Once inside, I could see a long hall, polished wood floors, framed family photographs climbing the wall, and a glimpse of a kitchen at the back of the house.
White cabinets with open shelves and a rustic painted island.
Sunlight fell across a basket of vegetables that clearly had come from June’s garden.
This was not just a house. This was a way of life. And I didn’t feel at all how I thought I would. I’d imagined nerves, maybe struggling for something to say. Instead, I felt jealous. What I would have given to have grown up in this house with this family.
“Y’all go out back,” June said. “The boys and I’ll bring everything out.”
“Can I help?” Ivy asked.
“No, we’ve got it. You relax,” June said. “Waylon will be here in a few minutes.”
“We saw him on the football field,” Ivy said.
“He works those boys hard,” June said. “As you can probably guess, we take our football real serious here in Tennessee.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
Gus led us out back. A long table had been set up beneath a covered patio near the side of the house, strung with lights that I imagined would come out when evening came. It had been set for dinner, with plates and silverware and flowers in Mason jars.
Ivy and I sat next to each other while Gus pulled two beers out of a cooler filled with ice.
“Your mother’s bringing tea but I think it’s an excellent evening for a cold one, right?” Gus asked, setting the beers in front of us, then reached back for another before sitting across from me.
“You still drink beer, honey, or are you too big city for that?” Gus asked. “All yellow wine now?”
“Daddy, white wine’s not illegal,” Ivy said.
“Only overpriced,” Gus said.
June and the boys came out with a tray loaded with different cheeses, crackers, and salami.
Beau set a sweating pitcher of tea on the table.
The boys grabbed beers before joining us at the table.
June tutted disapprovingly and poured herself a glass of tea.
Then, everyone started asking me questions.
To my surprise, a lot of it was about my music.
They were all fans, according to June. “Have been since that first song of yours hit the radio. “Blue Guitar.” Still one of my favorites.”
“We watched you on the singing show too,” Beau said. “All of us cheering you on from the living room like you could hear us.”
“Maybe I could,” I said, eyes stinging.
“Were you scared to sing on television?” June asked. “You were so young.”
“I was terrified.”
“His best friend growing up entered him without him knowing,” Ivy said, reaching for a piece of cheese.
“I remember the story,” Gus said. “When they went on that hometown day or whatever it was.”
Waylon came around the side of the house, broad-shouldered and serious, wearing jeans, boots, and a navy Juniper Creek High School football shirt stretched across a chest that told me it wasn’t just his students he made train.
His hair was dark, his jaw hard, and his eyes landed on me with a look I could interpret as hostile but chose to call protective instead.
I stood.
Ivy did too, brightening at the sight of him. “Waylon.”
His face softened the second he looked at her.
“Baby sister.” He pulled her into a hug, bending his head to kiss the top of hers. “About time you came home.”
“I’ve been busy,” Ivy said.
“I know, entertaining the world. But you’re still ours, you know,” Waylon said.
“Course I do.” She smacked him playfully on the chest, then led him over to me.
Up close, he had the kind of presence that made a person understand why teenage boys would immediately drop and start doing push-ups if he merely looked at them with a hint of disappointment.
“Jack,” he said.
“Waylon.” I held out my hand. “Good to meet you.”
His handshake was firm and steady.
“You a football fan?” Waylon asked.
“Depends who’s playing,” I said.
“Careful now,” Beau said from the table as he popped open another beer. “We don’t want to hear about the team who shall not be named. We’re real sick of them around here.”
“He’s talking about the Seahawks,” Ivy stage whispered to me.
“My lips are sealed,” I said, chuckling.
Waylon took the chair across from Ivy, which put him directly opposite me. On purpose, I suspected.
“Let me tell you how we roll around here when it comes to football,” Waylon said. “Friday nights belong to the Juniper Creek Hawks. That’s nonnegotiable. If we’ve got a home game, you come. If we’re away, you drive. If it rains, you get wet. If it’s cold, you wear a coat and don’t dare complain.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I said.
“Saturdays belong to the Tennessee Volunteers,” Waylon continued. “We bleed orange in this family, even when they make it hard, which they often do because apparently the Lord uses college football to teach humility.”
“Amen,” Gus said.
“And Sundays,” Waylon said, pointing his beer bottle toward me, “belong to the Titans. Now, you being from Washington, we will allow for some confusion in your early life, but we expect growth.”
Ivy leaned close to me. “That means you’re allowed to like the Seahawks privately, in your heart, where nobody can hear you.”
“That’s generous,” I said.