a short story (please excuse the paragraph formatting)
“They’re coming!”
My old college buds were coming to my wedding by the river.
I ran up to my walking buddies, who waited huddling against the wind. Winter was taking its sweet time passing through middle Tennessee this time around.
Waving four envelopes, I approached a trio of brightly colored parkas.
“Child, was there any doubt?”
Miss Gertrude, as she was called by even her closest friends, gave me a squeeze. I nuzzled up to my beloved friend, the mother I’d always wished for.
“You’ll all help me, right?” I asked.
“Let the wild rumpus begin!” Sarah proclaimed. “But let’s start walking before my tiny titties freeze.”
First, the women moved to the side of the narrow gravel road as a beat-up pick-up truck sped by, with a big old black birddog standing on the storage box. The driver waved as he passed.
They all waved back.
“I promise you, I will never take those waves for granted,” I said. “Eight years in L.A. and I didn’t even know my neighbor’s name. Here, first time I stopped into the market? A man in worn bib overalls started bagging my groceries. Then carried them to my car. Guess who?”
“Who?” asked Miss Gertrude.
“Howard!”
“You don’t say.”
Howard was their mailman.
Damn, I loved this place.
“After our divorce, when MC and I still lived on the same mail route, Howard would decide who got which mail when it came addressed ‘Mr. and Mrs.’
“He gave me the ballet and artsy stuff.”
“And what did MC get?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, rejections from credit card companies,” I laughed.
Grace smiled. Without these morning walks, this last year would have been unbearable. The four friends found their rhythm and picked up the pace.
“Sarah, how was the party Saturday night?” I asked.
Sarah was the most social of us four, though not always by choice. She was a descendent of one of Tennessee’s founding families. Part of her enjoyed the required functions. The other part of her could have saddled up a horse and gladly thrown her Old South heritage to the wind. She and her husband lived in their family’s antebellum homeplace that would put Tara to shame. As beautiful as Maplegrove Farm was with its 600 acres, there were many times Sarah longed for a more manageable lifestyle. The property was high maintenance and sucked up two incomes quickly.
“Did your socks stay put?” I teased.
Sarah had come by my farmhouse Saturday afternoon to borrow my ‘gambler coat’ and get made up as Rhett Butler for a come as your favorite movie character party. I had penciled in the mustache, sideburns and eye brows, maintaining a straight face. But when Sarah stuffed a big wad of socks down her pants to look more “manly,” it was too much.
“Didn’t you know Clark Gable had a wee dick?”
I had tried to talk her into going as Nell, from the movie.
“It’s too cold to show up naked. Besides what would I bring as a gift? A few bottles of Summer’s Eve Active spray?”
I howled.
“It’s easy coming dressed as Rhett—a bottle of whiskey and a box of cigars. Which the birthday girl appreciated, by the way.”
I hip-knocked Sarah just a tad. Miss Gertrude and Grace chuckled.
We four walked in silence as we hiked up the steepest part of Duck River Ridge, the valley below a bucolic view of wooded Tennessee hills at their finest. Breathe. The old Hartley place set against a grove of cedars. Comfort. Cows grazed in pastures that would be infinite shades of green by spring. Sublime.
“Grace. You alright?” I asked.
My neighbor and friend, gentle and quiet by nature, seemed distracted.
“Oh, I’m alright.”
Grace paused. The wind had reddened her porcelain cheeks, making her brilliant blue eyes and long thick black lashes even more stunning.
“OK. I’m not OK. Noah moved out again last night.”
There was a collective groan. There on top of the hill, Sarah stopped and hugged her.
“Grace. No. I’m so sorry.”
Grace gave a sad little laugh.
“I didn’t want to say anything this time. Y’all must be getting so tired of this. I know I am.”
“Never, dear.”
Poor Miss Gertrude was immediately teary eyed. She cried for all her brood. When my first marriage was ending, seemed like Miss Gertrude took it harder.
Grace’s voice remained calm and quiet.
“I saw it coming again. I gave him an ultimatum he couldn’t keep. When I came up from the studio last night, he was gone.”
“Are the kids alright?” I asked.
Grace and Noah were blessed with three wonderful children. The oldest was my daughter’s babysitter and hero. All the children inherited Grace’s talent. She was a gifted artisan. We shared studio space in a restored dairy barn on her property.
“They seem to be. I’m amazed at how well they’ve handled this entire year.”
Noah’s mother had died about a year-and-a-half before, in and out of mental hospitals most of her adult life. Noah had had a lifetime of trauma repressed—until she died. Then it surfaced. He’d been in and out of the marriage ever since. Grace had been very patient. And her friends saw a strength growing within her daily. They were proud of her. Whatever happened, she’d be O.K. They cared for Noah, too, and weren’t as sure about his prognosis. But Grace was the one they naturally embraced and protected.
“At least he’s getting counseling, Grace.” Miss Gertrude said.
“And at least I learned to work the tractor,” Grace replied.
They all laughed, turning around, toward home.
Yes, their Grace was going to be O.K.
