Page 40 of More Than This Land

At seventy-five, with a petite stature, spine as straight as an oak with white hair cut sharply at her jaw and eyes that raked over Claire with a quick assessment, she was the most intimidating of all the people Claire had met.

She wore pressed navy slacks and a cardigan with a hummingbird embroidered on the pocket. “Claire Whitlock.” Agnes didn’t bother nodding but held the door wide. “Come in. I made tea. The good kind, not the bags.”

Claire stepped inside and removed her shoes when Agnes gave her feet a pointed look. Family photographs covered one wall in an arrangement so careful it was almost architectural. A writing desk near the window held an open journal. Bookshelves lined two walls and even the oldest book looked pristine.

Claire set her delivery on the kitchen counter and accepted the tea Agnes pressed into her hands. They settled in the front room, Agnes in a wingback chair that held the impression of long occupation.

“My husband Harold died eleven years ago.” Agnes started the conversation without preamble, the way people do when they’ve integrated loss into their identity rather than fighting it. “Best friend I ever had. Married forty-four years.”

“I’m sorry.” Claire meant it.

“Don’t be.” Agnes sipped her tea. “Didn’t say it for sympathy. Trying to make a point. I had forty-four years with an exceptional person. That’s more than many people get.” She set her cup on a coaster and stared hard at Claire. “I spent the first three years after he died convincing myself I was fine and didn’t need anyone’s help.”

“What changed?”

Agnes tilted her head. “This community wouldn’t leave me alone long enough to maintain the fiction.” A dry smile crossed her face. “Ruth Calloway showed up every Tuesday for six months whether I asked her to or not. Rachael started a Bible study in my living room under the pretense that it was the most convenient location, which it absolutely was not. Tessa Ray started having my cat food order delivered when she knew perfectly well I was capable of picking it up myself.”

“You let them in.” Claire’s iced tea had gone warm in her hands.

“Eventually. Took longer than it should have. I’d built a very tidy, very manageable life after Harold died, and I wanted to keep it. Organized. Controlled. Safe.” She paused. “Also quite lonely, though I didn’t admit that until Ruth sat down at my kitchen table one Tuesday and said, ‘Agnes, you are the loneliest person I’ve ever met, and I am not leaving until you talk to me.’ And then she just sat there like a bump on a log.”

Something about the image made Claire’s throat tighten. She picked at her jeans and avoided looking at Agnes until the lump in her throat eased. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because Granny Mama asked me to.” Agnes’s expression was entirely unapologetic. “She’s worried about you. So is Rachael. So am I, though we haven’t met before today.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You’ve been doing for this community what nobody asked you to do, which tells me you’ve already decided you belong here even if you haven’t told yourself yet. And from what I understand, there may be a reason you’re afraid to admit it.”

Heat flooded Claire’s face. She opened her mouth to deflect, but Agnes held up one small hand.

“I’m not asking you to confess anything. I’m telling you what I know from experience. Staying safe is a choice. Leaving before you can be left is a choice. And choices have costs.” She picked up her tea again. “Eleven years alone has taught me that the cost of refusing to love is lonelier than the cost of loving and losing.”

Twice now she’d been at a loss for words.

Agnes finished her tea and stood, taking Claire’s half-empty cup from her. “Now then. I think I’ve done what Mae asked. The rest is up to you. Go on. Head home and think about what I said.”

Claire walked out in a daze, climbed into her sedan, and drove to Granny Mama’s with the radio off, her thoughts too loud to compete with music. She sat with everything the day had handed her, and even then, her conversation with Luke infiltrated.

You’ve already decided you belong here.

Had she?

The question burrowed under her careful rationalizations.

I’m asking for the possibility.

Granny Mama had dinner started when Claire came through the door. The smell of beef stew brought an immediate sense of comfort. Claire set her empty bags by the door and sank into a kitchen chair.

“Long day.” Granny Mama didn’t make it a question.

“Good day.” She pulled the rubber band from her hair. “Weird but good.”

“Those are often the same.” Granny Mama stirred the pot with smooth, even strokes. “How was Agnes?”

Claire’s chin rested in her hand. “Like you really have to ask. You set me up with that one. She had the whole thing scripted and on point.”

“I sent you there because she’s a widow on my delivery list.” Granny Mama’s innocence was entirely unconvincing, especially when her voice went all light and she turned her head away, so all Claire saw was the back of her bun.

“Granny Mama.”

“Oh, all right.” She lowered herself into her chair. “Agnes has wisdom she should share more freely. I may have encouraged the opportunity.” She folded her hands on the table and stared at Claire. “I wasn’t sure you’d hear it from me.”