The sound sends tingles through me that are akin to the excitement I felt on Christmas Eve as a little boy. Anticipation, joy, warmth.
In the entry to the church, the white-haired ladies I’ve known since I was a baby gather like cotton in a field. I pick my mother out of the crowd and stride over, leading Everly by the hand.
“Grey? Well, bless. I did not expect to see you today. My prayers have been answered.” She coos and fusses over Sonny.
I wrap her in a bear hug.
“You trimmed your hair and beard,” she says.
“Looking good, right? Sorry that I didn’t phone ahead. We only got in yesterday afternoon.”
“This little man has grown so much. Elsie called but said she couldn’t stay because wedding plans had to be made. It was good of her to look after him. Glad you’re home.”
“Me too. But that’s not all.” I step aside, realizing my massive frame blocked Everly from view.
She smiles and gives a little wave.
The women in my mom’s book club descend on Everly, chirping about how lovely she is and how wonderful it is to meet her and asking about a million questions—presuming she’s Sonny’s mother. They don’t know about my ex or the trials I’ve been through trying to track her down and obtain custody.
And my mother certainly doesn’t know what Everly means to me. I didn’t until yesterday. The piano rings out.
“We’d better head inside,” I say, shepherding everyone forward.
Preoccupied with Sonny, Mom doesn’t have a chance to ask questions. I grip Everly’s hand so she isn’t swallowed up in the commotion.
After a prayerful morning, we end up where we started in front of the church, everyone talking a mile a minute. I try to slow them down as they tell embarrassing stories about me when I was a little boy and got into all kinds of trouble.
“Who has the pie?” I ask, hoping that’ll keep us on track.
Each week, one of the women in my mom’s group bakes a pie and the others go to her house afterward and eat it, catch up on life, and praise the Lord.
“Blueberry crumble,” Mrs. Nelson says, claiming her day.
“Mmm. Sounds good. Now, let’s show Everly what UP baking tastes like,” I say, rallying them.
They start walking, but my mother remains on the steps of the church, motionless and pale. While my grief manifested as anger, I often found my mother paralyzed as though deep in thought, in mourning.
I turn back and say, “Mom, are you coming?”
Ingrid blinks a few times, strides over, and glances at my hand and then at Everly’s hand. “Are you...are you married?” Her words are crisp.
My mouth goes dry. I haven’t prepared a response.
Everly’s lips part, but nothing comes out.
We didn’t come up with a Marriage of Convenience Club rule for this moment, but it’s up to me to figure out a way to explain.
29
EVERLY
When Grey doesn’t answer his mother’s questions, I step forward. “Mrs. Adams—” But I hesitate because this isn’t something we can explain in a few short sentences.
It certainly isn’t conventional and marrying for convenience may not be favored in the eyes of God, but surely Ingrid can understand the direness of the situation. However, the right words tangle in my mouth.
How do we explain?
Ingrid’s nostrils flare, silencing me. She focuses on her son as though wanting to hear the truth from him.
