Rebecca
“Come to church with me, Becca.”
Granny set the last of the cookie trays on the Formica countertop, the aroma taking Rebecca straight back to childhood.
“Pastor Dave’s preaching on his mission trip to Guatemala. We can do brunch after! Dahlia’s version of what you did in New York.”
Rebecca inhaled deeply. She was huddled in her robe at the breakfast table, a huge mug of coffee before her. The soft morning sunlight cast shafts of white everywhere she looked—on the cookies that smelled simply amazing, on the morning paper before her, on Granny herself.
“Granny, this is the first morning I haven’t gone anywhere in possibly two weeks,” she said and smiled up, doing her best to project an exaggeratedly pitiful air.
Granny ruffled Rebecca’s hair softly, pulled out the chair next to her. “You’ve been working like a madwoman lately.”
Rebecca shrugged, slid the biscuits and plate of butter and raspberry jelly a little closer to Granny.
“You know why.”
Granny twisted her lips. “You’re gonna keel over before you evenhave a chance to save this thing.”
“So says the woman who’s awake at dawn most days, cooking for the homeless and wayward teenagers and some men’s breakfast group and who knows what else.” Rebecca elbowed her. “If you’re not volunteering somewhere, you’re working your tail off in the garden or that Zumba class you’ve been taking.”
Granny suppressed a grin. “It’s an exercise ministry, but you’re right, I could slow down a hair.”
“Workaholism runs in the family. At least that’s what Daddy always said.”
“Work is good for the soul, true, but there’s a fine line, honey.” Granny looked serious now. She put her hand over Rebecca’s, her soft, dry palm patting gently. “I know you have a lot of pressure. I just don’t want you to burn out. You’re still meeting with Nancy each week for counseling?”
Rebecca made a face. “Yeah, and it’s going well, but some weeks it’s hard to find time.”
“I hear you. But please, come to church with me. It’s a beautiful day, and I’d love the company.”
“Ah, Granny.” She weighed her words and sighed. “Look, we’ve talked about this—organized religion isn’t for me. I believe in God, I’m not saying I don’t, but church and all that ….”
She shook her head. The thought of going to church, dealing with all those people, made her palms itch.
“Maybe next week.”
Disappointment flashed in Granny’s eyes, but all she said was, “I hope so, sweet girl.” Then she stood, kissed Rebecca on the top of the head. “I’m going to shower and get dressed for worship. See you in a bit.”
An hour later, Granny out the door, Rebecca was in her room plotting this week’s paper. The last few weeks had been a flurry of fast-paced, high-energy news gathering, writing, and production,peppered with a healthy dose of marketing and nightly number-crunching. She’d assigned Tiff the town beat, and the girl was cranking out political digs and deeper stories about what the latest votes might mean for Dahlia residents.
“No meeting is just a meeting,” Rebecca had instructed her reporter. “The news isn’t the meeting—it’s what the action means for the readers. Why’s the mayor touring two new businesses next week? Are we getting new industry here?”
For her part, Rebecca had delved into investigative pieces: Why was Dahlia still struggling with decent Internet speed? Was the economy worse off than people imagined? Still, for all the hard work, Dahlia’s reaction to the harder news had been lukewarm. At least the complaints had tapered off.
Rebecca tucked the pencil behind her ear and leaned back against the pillow. She glanced out the window at the pretty summer day beyond, realized she was restless. A good run—maybe that was what she needed. Besides, Granny was right. It really was a beautiful day.
And with that, Rebecca stood, slipped off the robe and into a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, laced up her sneakers, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail.
Fifteen minutes later, drenched and out of breath, she found herself on the banks of the Wahca River. Gramps had told her long ago the river was Dahlia’s namesake—“wahca” meant flower in the Native Siouan language spoken by the Catawba tribes here hundreds of years ago. Rebecca flopped down on the riverbank and closed her eyes, breathed in the dark scent of soil and fish and river water. Did the Native Americans have any idea, all those years ago when they lived off the land and prayed to their Creator, that one day they’d be long gone? That this beautiful territory would soon get named after a fluffy, vibrantly colored blossom smuggled to America by the same European settlers who’d later chase theNative people from these parts forever?
She gazed across the river into the piney woodlands beyond and imagined herself a Native woman, there on the riverbank. Wondered how it might have felt to know your home was being taken over by strangers who wanted you gone, far away. From where she stood, she could see no sign of the town beyond, hear no cars or other sound indicating another soul for miles. Loneliness washed over her, and for a moment she could almost smell New York again—her favorite bakery on Barrow Street, the Japanese cherry trees in Central Park in late April, even the food vendors and exhaust from the taxicabs up and down the streets as she’d make her way into work. She felt utterly, completely alone.
What am I doing here? A lump gave way to tears. She brushed them away, but they came harder. Finally she gave in, let them take over for a moment, let the memories slide back. Peter. Her old life. Her old world. Her boss Ed Bannister and the look on his face the last time she’d seen him, the day she’d packed up her office and left it all behind.
Deep gulps of air came like an onslaught, and she covered her face with her arms, blocked out the sun and the easy breeze.
She’d had it all, and it was taken right out from under her. And now she was nothing. A failure in the middle of nowhere. Only Granny probably cared if she lived or died. Her parents? That was a joke; they’d probably come to her funeral and be right back playing tennis or in the courtroom the next day. It had been years since she’d last been home, and except for a quick phone call while she was in the hospital—when she’d assured them she was absolutely fine, thank you, no need to come visit—eons since they’d even talked. She and they were as different as night and day, and frankly, she didn’t think she could stand job advice from her dad or the press of her mother’s thin lips.
