After I got pregnant, he quit teaching and went to work for Mr. Laurence at his big car dealership. I missed our time together, the lazySunday afternoons, the long Christmas break. The evenings when he used to come home without stress bunching his jaw and shoulders.
But we couldn’t raise a family on his teacher’s salary, John had explained earnestly. And one of us needed to be home full-time with the twins.
Well. I knew how his own mother had struggled to make ends meet. I remembered how our lives had changed after Daddy gave up his congregation. Like most parents, we made sacrifices.
Not that my staying home was a sacrifice.
In the car, I sang.“Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go...”Daisy chirped along. DJ kicked his feet in time to the music. Love for them squeezed my chest so tight I could scarcely breathe.
Bunyan had grown in layers, like an onion. At the center was the historic district full of retired lawyers and B and Bs, within walking distance of the church, the library, and the waterfront. Then the gated communities, springing up like cattails along the river with their boat slips and golf course memberships, where my friend Sallie Moffat lived. Our neighborhood was beyond that, on the road out of town, a neat subdivision bulldozed in between the trailers and old tobacco barns quietly going to ruin under veils of kudzu.
The parking lot was full of shoppers in town for the farmers’ market. But I found a spot two streets over, down by the waterfront. Slinging my giant mommy bag over my shoulder, I lifted Daisy out of her car seat (“I walk, Mommy!” she insisted), buckled DJ into the stroller, and handed him his blanket. Picking up and moving things—bags of groceries, stacks of mail, scattered toys, the kids... That was my day. Actually, that pretty much summed up my life since Daisy and DJ were born. Two and a half years ago, two minutes apart.
In the delivery room—before DJ was whisked away, before my tummy was stitched and stapled—the nurse held each baby close to my face so I could touch them with one hand, kissing their precious, pink, squishy cheeks while they cried. I’d cried, too, tears of relief and joyand exhaustion. Even John’s beautiful brown eyes were wet.This is it,I’d thought then, overwhelmed with love. Marveling at their tiny fingernails, their adorable pursed lips, the delicate fringe of their eyelashes.This is everything.Finally, like my sisters, I had found my calling. Not a writer like Jo or an artist like Amy or a musician like Beth. I was born to be a mom. Like our mom.
We made our way along the river walk. Daisy skipped beside me in her sparkly shoes, mostly listening to my admonitions to stay out of puddles and off the grass. The sound of her giggles lifted my heart. Last night’s rain had washed the sky to sparkling blue. The furled masts of sailboats stood out against the bright sky. The white steeples of Bunyan Baptist and First Methodist Church rose over the town. Where Daddy used to preach before he went to war. Before we moved to the farm, back when we had money.
I held Daisy’s hand crossing the street; levered the stroller over a storm drain and onto the curb. The back wheels caught. I was stuck like a rock in a stream of holiday shoppers, couples strolling hand in hand, parents with their children in tow or riding on their fathers’ shoulders.
Not a problem. I yanked. Nothing.
There was a time when I would have looked around for help. When guys leaped forward to open my door or motioned me to go ahead in the checkout line or at intersections. Now? Not so much. I was a mom now. It was like the stroller had some magic power that rendered me invisible to men.
I set my teeth and shoved.
A strong hand gripped the front of the stroller and lifted. The wheels cleared the curb. I looked up, smiling my thanks.
A man—a young man with a short, reddish beard—smiled back. “Heya, Meg. Meg March, right?”
I straightened, flustered. “I... Yes? I mean, no. It’s Meg Brooke now.”
“From the bank, right?”
I tugged at my sagging T-shirt. Smoothed my hair. He was verycute. And vaguely familiar, which in a town the size of Bunyan was no surprise. “Yes?”
He gave a short, satisfied nod. “I thought so. It’s Carl,” he said. “Carl Stewart.”
“The sweet potato guy.” I remembered now. His family owned a farm on the other side of town. “You applied for a loan.”
Carl had graduated from NC State a few years ago, full of plans to convert the farm to an organic operation. He’d started implementing organic practices right away. But because of regulations, his produce couldn’t be certified as organic for three full years. He’d needed a bridge loan to meet expenses until then.
“And got it, thanks to you.”
I flushed a little with pleasure. “You got it because you qualified.”
“After you went to bat for me.”
“All part of the job.” My favorite part, actually—guiding applicants through the loan process, making sure they had the best shot at getting the credit they needed to upgrade operations or expand their businesses. The loan business wasn’t all about assessing risk. It was helping people realize their dreams. “So, how’s the organic farm business going?”
“Good. Great, actually.” A smile cracked his scruffy jaw. “Everybody wants sweet potatoes this time of year.”
I laughed. Not flirting, just... Well, flirting a little. Totally innocent, perfectly safe. I was happily married. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Sales are up. Way up. We’re in All Seasons now.”
All Seasons Market, a small produce and grocery chain gradually spreading throughout the Carolinas. “I’m impressed,” I said.
“Thanks. I was talking to Abby about expanding distribution. But I guess you know all about that.”
