The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 34

  “I don’t want to sound like a coward, but why dredge this up now? Griff was let off.”

  “He wasn’t exonerated. It might matter in Walden’s sentencing hearing. And, there’s a difference in the eyes of this town. We still own Pearl River Plantation. What if Griff wants to come back here?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. I watch the light come into his eyes.

  I don’t want to mislead him. “I mean, I don’t know that he will. But he said he’s not ready to sell it.”

  “You know I’d do anything for Griff.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m kind of dating the sister of the evidence clerk. I can probably do it without drawing attention.”

  “Kind of dating?”

  “Okay. Dating.”

  “Damn good thing we got off your front porch before we broke out the beer, then. Don’t want to piss off her brother.”

  We clink our cans and watch the first stars appear in the deep-blue sky.

  34

  I’m lying on Gran’s front porch swing like a lazy cat, watching the sky-blue ceiling boards shift back and forth hypnotically, trying to point myself in a direction. I spent the last hour looking at my sketchbooks, the diary of my life after Lamoyne. I’m not sure I want to go back to California.

  I hear the phone ring. A moment later, Gran sticks her head out the front door and tells me I have a call. Can’t be Ross, because he always chats with Gran for several minutes first.

  “I’m at the station, so I have to make this quick,” Tommy says when I answer, his voice low and quiet. “I got a hold of the evidence box for Lena’s death.”

  “And?” My heart speeds up.

  “I found a photo buried in the coroner’s report. A picture of fresh bite marks on Lena’s neck. Lateral incisors that overlap crooked centrals.”

  “Oh my God. You linked him with hard evidence!”

  “It can prove he bit her not long before her death, not more than that.”

  “Well, this should help. Amelia called early this morning. She interviewed a retired, very guilt-ridden officer from campus police about that night. He’s in Arizona now and—after she used her lawyer skills on him—decided to clear his conscience. He saw Grayson around the bell tower that night. The chief threatened him into silence.”

  “He’ll testify?” Tommy’s whisper is excited.

  “I don’t know for sure. But it’ll help you, right?”

  “Maybe. I have to be careful how I handle this, so keep it to yourself for now. I don’t want this evidence disappearing before we can use it. And I’ll need to see if I can find more.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will. Any change with Walden?”

  “No—”

  “Gotta go. Talk soon.” He hangs up, and it’s all I can do not to let out a whoop of joy. Even if it doesn’t help Walden, it might just get Grayson Collie what he so richly deserves—and clean up Griff’s reputation at the same time.

  From that moment, it’s the falling of dominoes, fast and decisive. Amelia started it at one end and Tommy the other. In the center, caught in the crossfire, was Grayson Collie and his conniving father.

  The chief is immediately fired by a very embarrassed mayor. And the prosecutor’s office is reopening Lena’s case and starting an investigation into obstruction of justice and a couple of other charges against the chief that I’ve never heard of.

  I make a beeline to tell Maisie, thinking of how happy she’ll be. Grayson harassed us both throughout our growing-up years.

  When I arrive at the Delmores’ house, the Delmores are in their respective stations on the front porch and Maisie is in the backyard taking down laundry.

  She smiles when she sees me coming around the corner. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you decided to move back here.”

  “No way. But I can’t seem to get myself motivated to go back to face unemployment in California, either.” I take the pillowcase out of her hand and fold it and put it in the basket. “You know Grayson’s sitting behind bars in his Daddy’s old domain right now, don’t you?”

  “I heard. My hopes ain’t high he’ll stay there.”

  “Well, this might raise them. Tommy just called and told me two women came forward claiming Grayson raped them. Maybe now that Chief Collie is out of a job things will change.”

  She snorts, and I can’t really argue with her.

  “Have you and Marlon considered moving away? Maybe up north—or west? There are more opportunities,” I say.

  Her eyes widen. “I love you, Tallulah, but why would I leave? This is our home. Our people are here. Besides, Marlon’s practice is here, our community needs a good doctor.”

  Her words sink deep. Coming home, finding my people threatened by things I never imagined, has made me see things differently, maybe clearly for the first time in many years. No matter how much you disappoint one another, or infuriate one another, no one makes you feel as connected to life as family.

  “Just a few weeks ago I would have argued with you. But now I see what a person gives up when they leave their people behind.”

  “So?” She nudges me with an elbow. “Maybe you should move back here.”

  “No matter how far I am from here, I won’t go years without coming to see you and Gran again. I promise.”

  “I know what a promise means to you, so I’m happy with that.”

  I give her a quick hug. “Life without your friendship is a lonely place.”

  “Amen to that.”

  * * *

  Saturday morning, two weeks after bringing Gran back to Lamoyne, I wake restless. Walden hasn’t budged. Dr. Scott said Gran is in the clear. It’s time to deal with my own life—reinvent myself yet again. As a grown woman with work experience, I can pretty much plant myself wherever I choose—not a place Griff selected, or where I was abandoned. A choice. Turns out, endless options are nearly as frightening as none.

  I put on a scooter skirt (my semiconcession to Gran, who doesn’t believe women should wear shorts, even in the home) and my Adidas and find Gran in the backyard pruning her roses.

  “I’m going to take a walk,” I say. “Get my head back to normal life—whatever that is.”

  “Why, Tallulah, normal is whatever you make it. You surely know that by now.” She looks in my eyes for a long moment, then she smiles. “I think a long walk will do you good.” Then her gaze travels to my bare thighs. Her cheeks turn pink, but she doesn’t lecture. “You should take the straw hat from the back porch, ’else your nose will burn.”

  Saturday is a busy shopping day and I don’t want to talk to anyone, so I take side streets to skirt downtown. I stick to the shade as much as possible, but I’m glad I wore the hat. The sun is brutal already. Which means the afternoon will bring either scorching temperatures, or a fierce thunderstorm. I remember sitting on Gran’s front porch in the summers of my childhood, watching the roiling clouds and jagged lightning. We would stay there as long as we could, watching puddles gather and raindrops plop like sprouting corn shoots. When the wind pushed the lashing rain so hard it reached across the depth of the porch, we’d run inside and Gran would give us chocolate milk and cookies.

  I’m hoping for a storm.

  It’s funny, now that I’m no longer feeding justification for leaving, I recall the good times more and more.

  My pace slows and my feet swell in my shoes as I push through the heat and humidity. Sweat trickles down the center of my back and between my breasts.

  Soon I’m standing at the lane to Pearl River Plantation without consciously planning to come here. I run my hand over the splintery sign, tracing the ghost of the letters labeling my old life. Then I wade through the stinging nettles in the overgrown lane, wishing I’d worn pants. I try to flatten them ahead of me by pushing them with the side of my shoe, only to be rewarded with a sting on the back of my calf as the occasional plant pops back up in retaliation.

  When the house comes into view, it’s smaller than I remember
. Vines have climbed the brick pilings that support the porch and are taking over the railing. They wrap the posts and snake into the eaves. The windows have been boarded over with weathering plywood, which must have been Gran’s effort to protect the interior from the ravages of storm-broken glass and vandals. The only sounds are the whirr of insects and conversation of birds.

  I stare at the house for a few minutes, even now surprised I’m standing here, a place I thought I’d never see again. It causes a strange sense of vertigo, this collision of long-ago and now, of childhood pain and adult understanding, of the unchangeable past and the possibilities of the future.

  I pick my way carefully up the six warped steps to the porch. Placing my palms on the solid front door, I close my eyes. The rumbles of every emotional storm that raged inside these walls still reverberate within me—and probably always will. Even so, I’m sad that nature is trying to erase this place, erase the legacy of generations of Jameses, of Granddad and Great-Uncle George, of Daddy. Mistakes were made. Lives were ruined. And yet Gran fought tooth and nail to preserve this family legacy for us.

  I can only see the peak of the orchard barn roof from the front porch. When I reach it, the vines have been even more aggressive here, covering a good part of the walls and roof. I go behind the barn, looking for Dad’s pecan sheller. There’s a mass of vegetation with a couple of fingers of rusted metal poking out. Even though I’ve promised myself to stop the what-ifs, I wonder how different life might have been if he’d had the focus to complete it.

  The blackberry orchard is impassable, a tangle of thorny cane and wild weeds. But when I reach the pecan orchard, the rows of giant trees are evident even with underbrush and sprouted saplings littering the aisles. I make my way toward the southwest corner, scolded by chattering squirrels, and frightening rabbits and snakes along the way.

  The fence is still standing, overtaken by weeds, but standing. I climb up and onto my branch. The river is the first thing I’ve seen on the farm that is unchanged. The water low and slow, depleted by the long months of summer, making it clearer than usual. Brown, mossy rocks are visible on the bottom in the shallows, along with the occasional fish nosing around. I rest my cheek against the trunk of the tree, close my eyes, and breathe in the smell of the mud. I hear a woodpecker hammering away somewhere nearby and the call of a mockingbird. And suddenly, I feel it.

  Home.

  In spite of all the misery and turmoil that happened here, I feel a peaceful connection to this place—to Gran, my siblings. Keeping my eyes closed, I enjoy the revelation, the internal stillness that seems so contrary to my childhood.

  My eyes snap open when I hear something large moving through the underbrush. A wild hog can’t get me up here, but a bear . . .

  I look right and left. Then behind me. It’s neither hog nor bear. It’s Ross. I knew he was coming to the cottage this weekend, but am surprised he’s arrived so early.

  “You scared the daylights out of me. How did you know I was here?”

  “Lavada said you went for a long walk, with the emphasis on long. I took a guess. You left an easy trail to follow from the road.” He looks up at me for a moment. “I’ll leave if you want to be alone.”

  “I don’t.” Ross is the only person who’s not an intrusion as I return to this sacred place.

  He climbs up and sits on the top rail of the fence, just as he did years ago.

  “Come on up,” I say. “I didn’t expect you until this afternoon.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.” He sits next to me. “Too excited.”

  “Excited?”

  “To see you.”

  I smile at him.

  His hands cup my face. “How can I miss you so much in a week, when I lived without you for so long?” Then he kisses me, and it’s even more earth-shattering than my fourteen-year-old self imagined.

  When our lips part, I look into those impossibly blue eyes and say, “I’ve been missing you for nine years. I just didn’t know it.”

  He puts an arm around me, and I rest my head on his shoulder. We sit there, the world outside no longer mattering. For the first time in my life, I feel totally at peace, no qualifications, no reservations.

  Walden’s troubles are ongoing, but he’s safer in jail than with that lunatic, Smythe. Whatever happens, I will be here for him. And Griff. Once he is healed, I will support him in getting his life restarted, wherever he wants it to be.

  The storm of the past is gone. The future unsure, but I no longer fear the uncertainty, the uncharted path. As long I have my people to care for, each of us bent but hopefully not broken, hurt but not unforgiving, I will find my way forward.

  Now I just have to decide where. For certain, not California, a place I now associate with isolation and hiding.

  I draw strength from Ross’s closeness. I am not afraid to let him see me as I am, for he’s always known the worst and still he is here. He is not wild declarations of passion, or demands for concessions I’m not ready to give. Just Ross, caring and constant, his arm around me. Always.

  Sitting in his embrace, staring at the flow of the river, I realize that I no longer have any fears to toss into the current.

  EPILOGUE

  May 12, 1974

  There’s a new sign for Pearl River Plantation. Ross makes the turn onto the neatly cleared drive, smiling at me as he does. As a child, starting down this lane caused a knot in my belly, not ever knowing what awaited at the end. Back then I didn’t notice it, commonplace as it was. Now my happy anticipation makes me starkly aware of the absence of dread. In my lap, I clutch a jar of mayhaw jelly. I didn’t risk life and limb to collect the fruit, or make it with my own hands, but I hope Gran will appreciate the sentiment just the same.

  Griff and Ross managed to talk her out of hosting the newly revived Mother’s Day crawfish boil, arguing that as the honoree she shouldn’t be lifting a finger. Her health is good, but her poor eyesight is making everyday life more of a challenge—not that she’ll admit it. I can tell giving up the crawfish boil doesn’t sit easy with her. She’s been responsible for every holiday this family has ever had. I imagine today will be filled with worried glances and gentle suggestions.

  Ross says, “This is an anniversary of sorts for us.”

  I reach across and take his hand. “I thought our anniversary was last Friday. Thirteen years since we met. Thirteen years I wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t saved me from drowning.”

  “Guess we’re going to have to start a list.”

  I suppose all couples have multiple anniversaries, but I like to think Ross and I are special. Special in the way we met. Special that from the beginning he saw the worst, not the best of me. Special that we share not only our lives, but our work. Throughout the first year after we reunited, we worked to establish the Drayton Foundation for Mental Wellness. I left off Dad’s last name to keep Gran from being too uncomfortable. She and I have learned to accommodate each other that way.

  I spend too much time on the road away from Ross, but these first years require a great deal of speaking. Still today, mental illness is too often viewed as a character flaw, something a person can will themselves to get over. My mission is to make people see it’s a biological malfunction, just like diabetes. This year we expanded the Drayton Foundation’s family support outreach. My favorite project so far.

  The house comes into view. It looks better than I recall it ever looking—fresh paint and clean windows, as if someone finally cares enough to do more than slam in and out of its doors and sleep under its roof.

  Griff pushes through the front screen. Gran is right behind him. I’m out of the car before it stops rolling. I race up the steps and throw one arm around each of them in a giant hug.

  Griff stumbles back slightly, his balance not quite solid on his new, improved prosthetic leg.

  “Oh, sorry!” I say as I let him go.

  “I have to learn to balance the onslaught of your hugs sooner or later.” He grabs me and hugs me again.

&nb
sp; When he releases me, I surreptitiously assess the scars on the side of his neck and left arm. The redness is finally easing, but it’s still painful for me to look at. I imagine it always will be. Overall, though, he looks good. He’s put on some weight and the tension in his face has eased. It seems the orchard he gave new life is returning the favor.

  Considering all he’s been through with the war, his wounds and rehabilitation, the horrible way people are treating Vietnam vets, I worried he might fall into drugs or darkness like so many. But it seems he’s a sword forged in fire, any microscopic weaknesses have been hammered out of him. It breaks my heart to think of the years he secretly feared the day mental illness would sweep him away as it did our father.

  Ross finally catches up and gives Griff a hug, not that awkward standoffish hand shaking so many guys do. It warms me all over every time I see them with their arms around each other.

  “Is Tommy still coming?” I ask. After all, this is his mom’s first Mother’s Day as grandmother of twins—and his wife’s first Mother’s Day ever.

  Griff smiles. “When I asked, he said the same thing he said back in the day, ‘Why wouldn’t I? I come every year.’ But he said it might be close to five before they get here. Maisie, Marlon, and Mr. Stokes?”

  Maisie is still waiting for a baby. She’s starting to give up hope. But I’m proof there is always hope for complete happiness, no matter how bleak things are.

  “Yes. She said Mr. Stokes has been counting the days.” I extend the jar of jelly to Gran. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

  She smiles as she takes it. “This is the only thing your mother and I ever agreed on.” The knowing look in her eyes tells me she understands everything it stands for. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I love you, Tallulah Mae.”

  Gran links her arm through mine and leads me into the house. “Come help me scrub the potatoes.”

  Once we’re inside, standing at the sink, she says, “It’ll be so nice when Walden and Dharma can be here for Mother’s Day, too.”