“Got that right. You know, I still hear him sometimes, your Gramps,” Granny leaned back. “I hear the floorboards shift, and it sounds like him, walking through the house, like he’s going to walk in here any moment and say, ‘Helen, have you seen my watch?’” Granny’s voice dropped in imitation.
“He was always looking for his watch! Or his slippers. What’d he call them, home shoes?”
Granny grinned, the years dropping from her face. “And his keys. That man would lose his head if it weren’t latched on. I used to tease him all the time about that.” She shook her head suddenly. “I’m a silly old woman. Hearing footsteps like he was here just yesterday. It’s been fifteen years this March.”
“It doesn’t seem that long.” Rebecca closed her eyes, ticked off the years in her head. She’d been twenty-five, had flown in from New York and barely made it in time for the funeral. “You must miss him terribly.”
“It’s hard sometimes. It was worse at first, those initial years.” Granny fiddled with the mug, voice soft. “I remember not even wanting to get out of bed.” She cleared her throat. “But a good friend did the trick. Betty. Told me, ‘Get through today, Helen. That’s all you have to do.’ And today turned into tomorrow, and tomorrow turned into the next, and soon I was out there again, doing my part. The missing never goes away. But you learn to go on, somehow.”
“You always seemed so strong.” Rebecca took Granny’s hand. “I didn’t realize how hard it was. To go on. To deal with everything.”
“Oh, honey, it was so hard. But you know what? Faith kept me going. Still does. And I know he’s up there, waiting for me in heaven.”
Granny squeezed Rebecca’s hand twice. Love you.
Love you back, Rebecca squeezed in reply.
“I’m sorry, Granny.” Her grandmother’s wrinkles were smooth and comforting beneath her fingers, and Rebecca squeezed tighter. “Sorry I wasn’t here for you, afterwards. Not in a better way. I was so caught up in my—my own stupid little world, and I didn’t realize.”
She’d been a jerk. A selfish, self-absorbed jerk. And that was the plain truth. A lump began to form in her throat.
“Sweet girl, you weren’t meant to be. You needed to spread your wings, do your thing. Learn to be you.”
“I needed to be there for the people I love.” Rebecca let out a long breath. “Granny, I mean it—I’m sorry. I love you. I learned somuch from you. You and Gramps. And even if I haven’t acted very grateful since you brought me here …” She squeezed Granny’s hand once more, then let go. “I’m very, very thankful you did.”
She meant it. Dahlia could be boring, and it drove her crazy most days, but this time with Granny, the chance to heal and get away from everything, had been exactly what she’d needed. Somehow, Granny had known that. Known her better than Rebecca knew herself, perhaps.
“Oh, girl, you are a good one. Always did have my heart. That reporter of yours? Her sweet’s got nothing on yours. Even if you do say you don’t like sappy stories anymore.”
Rebecca made a face, and they laughed, scraped the chairs on the linoleum as they rose from the table.
???
As she drove to work, she passed the turn that led to Devon’s side of town, which led to remembering how much fun she’d had at his church giveaway Friday. She smiled at that, at how much things had changed. A year ago, “fun” would have been a great party or restaurant, some exciting trip with friends or Peter. She frowned; now that she thought about it, she wouldn’t exactly call times with Peter “fun” at all. They had gone out on the town quite a bit, which was always exciting, but it was usually for business, not pleasure. To see or be seen, or as he called it, networking.
In a million years she wouldn’t have thought spending four hours folding old clothes and chatting it up with homeless guys at a church giveaway would be a good time, and yet it was the best night she’d had in ages. Even counting New York.
And to think she almost hadn’t gone.
But she had, despite her misgivings, despite worries that she’d get sucked into some obligatory donation or church invite, or haveto stand there all night with a cheesy way-too-wholesome smile on her face saying “oh golly” and “shucks” and commenting on the weather.
They, the volunteers and guests, had been nice. Really nice. Some wouldn’t meet her eye or say a word, but others were personable, funny, like those two guys who kept her rolling with jokes all night. No wonder Devon liked it, went week after week. Plus the food was amazing.
She couldn’t tell if half the people were volunteers or homeless, and maybe that was the point. The man with the musical accent, Sammy, who called her “Miss Lady” and reminded her of one of those Gullah men who’d woven her a palm basket once, down in Charleston, acted like he ran the place. Sweet, perky Mrs. Martha with the white hair and the clipboard. Mike, who had a killer dry sense of humor. She found out after that he’d lost his wife to cancer four months ago. She was half surprised Granny didn’t walk in and help, though she knew Granny had another commitment that night with a couple of her longtime pals.
Devon himself was a dynamo, she thought as she turned onto Main Street, paused to let a couple cross the road. And he did it all with a smile, like work was normal and natural and expected, no big deal. He made it fun, and just being around him made her feel lighter inside. When she was eleven, she didn’t think her mom would have let her in the kitchen to load the dishwasher with their expensive plates and cups, let alone bike to a church and volunteer with a bunch of poor people. She’d been coddled, she realized now. Coddled and pampered and protected from the real world.
Even his pastor was an all right guy. Rev’s “welcome back anytime” had felt genuine, and the Sunday sermon actually sounded interesting. She didn’t go or anything, but he’d said he was planning to preach on soccer, something about how teamwork, controlling the ball, and making the goal had everything to do with aperson’s faith walk. If they’d done sermons like that when she was a kid, maybe she would have stayed alert and engaged in church instead of hightailing it the first chance she had. This pastor was doing something right if he’d managed to get an eleven-year-old kid hooked on church. Even if he did use words like “faith walk.”
She needed to go back and do an article about the place.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she answered as she pulled up to the newspaper office.
“Rebecca Chastain,” she answered, not bothering to look at the caller ID.
“It’s happened,” a dramatic voice came over the line. “You do have a Southern accent.”
Sarah. Rebecca almost cackled as she shifted the car into park.
