Epilogue #3
When Clint stood up and said it plain, the way he says everything, the whole room came up out of its chairs at once.
Tommy whooped and vaulted a bench. Izzy was crying before I'd finished turning around, and then she had me, hard, both arms, saying finally, finally into my ear like she'd been holding it for weeks, which she probably had.
The women closed around me in a warm, shrieking knot.
The men went for Clint. Somebody produced champagne at nine in the morning, because this family produced whatever it wanted whenever it wanted it.
Cash lifted his glass to his brother across the room and said nothing at all, which, from Cash, was a speech.
And Elaine.
She was having a foggy morning, a soft one, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes somewhere far off. And Clint went to her first, before anybody, before the champagne. He knelt down beside her chair and took her hand and he said, "Mama. She said yes."
And Elaine came up out of the water.
I watched it happen. The whole room watched it happen and went quiet to let it.
Her eyes cleared and found her son's face and then found me, standing there with a hundred-year-old ring on my hand.
Something moved through her that was all the way present, all the way her.
She reached out her free hand toward me.
I went to her and took it. She looked up at me with her whole self shining out of her face and said:
"There now. Good. That's settled."
She squeezed my hand, and she looked between the two of us, her boy and the girl who poured a proper cup—and then her eyes went past us, across the room, and found Byron, standing back by the tall windows where he always stood, watching his family come apart with joy.
And she looked at her husband across forty years and smiled like a Sunday morning, and she said, "Now, I've got everybody. "
Then a small cloud crossed her, the way it does, and her brow creased, and she looked around that crowded room once more, counting some tally only she could see.
"Almost everybody," she said. "Where's my John?"
The room went quiet a beat. Because she was right. She was foggy on half the names in that house and she was right about the one that was missing—one boy still out there somewhere, the last of her Texas seven, not yet home. Byron's jaw did a thing. Clint's hand found mine and held it.
"He's coming, Mama," Clint said. "We're going to bring him home. Soon."
Elaine nodded, satisfied, the cloud passing off her as easy as it had come.
"Good," she said. "All my boys under one roof.
That's all I ever wanted." And then she was light again, and she looked around for the champagne.
"Now. A girl gets herself engaged to one of mine, she ought to have a proper glass. Somebody get this one a glass."
Byron didn't say anything. That upright, unbreakable man just looked back at his wife across a crowded room, on a morning she knew his face, and let her have found him.
I watched something move over him that a lifetime of drawing fire had never once put there, and I had to look away from it, because some things aren't yours to watch.
We're going to Dubai.
It's the honeymoon, or the start of one—I've got a passport now, a real one, with a photograph where I'm trying not to smile and failing. We leave after the wedding, after—well. After the other thing. After Craine.
I'm going to walk through a lobby somebody built to prove a point, with my husband's hand in mine, and I'm going to stand in the middle of it and let it teach me something, the way I always wanted to.
And then, I'm going to come home and build the thing I can see—Izzy's already drawing up the papers, my name going on something at last, the good bones and the good bar and a back-of-house that lets the people who run the place be seen.
My mother's stairs. I'm going to build a place with no back stairs at all.
But first, Wadmalaw.
The title's cleared. It took the meanest lawyer in Charleston County and every dollar the fight was worth and it's done—fourteen acres of marsh and hummock and a bent-over live oak, in the family's name, the right way, forever, no cousin and no firm ever able to touch it again.
Verlie cried when the papers came through.
I didn't. I got in the car and I drove out to the island, alone, and I walked down to the water where my grandmother shucked oysters into a bucket between her knees, and I stood on the ground my people have stood on for a hundred years, and I said the word out loud, where somebody could hear me, even if the only somebody was the tide going out and coming back.
Mine.
And then, I drove home to the man who couldn't stay, and who stayed.
I did my own life.
I finally, finally did my own life.