“John, did you find it?” Dad stood just inside the office. “We must go down. The Family is never late.”
“Yes, sorry. I’m just coming.” He raised the scepter. “I have it here. In my hand.”
And somehow in his heart, in his mind, and in his soul.
* * *
Gemma
Three days after B. A. Carpenter arrived, announcing Gemma lived on stolen property, her house was full of Stones.
Mama, Daddy, Granny, Aunt Edwina and Uncle Bud, along with Hank and Betty, Al and Betty (yes, it got confusing), Bill and Nancy. Because even a crisis called for a good game of cards. And prayer. Cards and prayer.
Mama called everyone she knew to pray, announcing Gemma’s shame and failure to the world. Even strangers on the street.
“My daughter got hoodwinked by land swindlers. She could use your prayers.”
Even the guests at the Hearts Bend Inn got a full account as Mama made up their beds and emptied their trash. (She knew all this because Daddy gave Gemma a detailed account.)
Gemma Edwina Stone once again walked the journey of a thousand bad decisions. Now a thousand and one bad decisions.
Tonight Pastor Clyde came to pray after supper—which Gemma appreciated—though he was rather loquacious despite the heat of bodies gathered in the kitchen under a weak working ceiling fan. The old air conditioner huffed and puffed trying to keep the house cool, but its old motor wasn’t enough against so many warm bodies and too many long-winded prayers.
Escaping outside after the prayer, Gemma sat on the back deck, grateful the August evening had cooled. Imani started school this week. She’d play a short volleyball season, then get straight into basketball.
Gemma anticipated a lot of nights at the Rock Mill High gym or traveling around the state for away games.
She welcomed the distraction. Because she still spent too much time thinking about the one thing she desperately wanted to forget. The prince.
She created a couple of social media accounts—with a fake name of course—and followed some of the royal blogs and the Perrigwynn Palace account. Prince John had a lot of fan accounts, as did his brother, Gus.
She tried not to look at her feeds often, but scrolling through various accounts had already become her nightly habit.
Worse, she dreamed of him. And also, she blamed the puppies. Everything about them screamed, “The prince, the prince.”
They were growing up. By the end of summer, they should all have new homes. Except Chandler, because the prince wanted him. Gemma wondered if Scottie would go over any time soon. She could take Chandler with her.
By Thursday night, Gemma had enough. Especially after little Jimmy Peterman barged into the bathroom—the lock never worked—and announced to the world, “Miss Gemma’s pooping on the potty. Mama, Mama—”
Embarrassment and limping A/C aside, she was suffocating. People were at the house when she went to work, when she came home, and when she went to bed.
They mopped, vacuumed, cleaned, did the laundry, and attempted to cook—all of which she appreciated—the good southern hospitality in a time of crisis.
Which led to a daily detailed account of every flaw in the house and every quirk of her broken-down appliances.
“The oven don’t heat evenly. I think it’s your coils.”
“Did you know two of your burners are out?”
“What’s with the washing machine tub spinning backwards?”
Yes, she knew all of it, but what did any of it matter? She’d lost the house and the land.
The worst part was when people wanted to help with the herd. Between telling them what to do and what not to do, and running interference for the rescues, the chores took twice as long.
Eventually every conversation ended with,“Why don’t you go on inside and see what Daddy and Mama are up to?”
But enough was enough. Standing between the living room and kitchen, Gemma got everyone’s attention. “Thank you all so much for your encouragement and help but—”
