Sweetgrass
Mary Alice Monroe

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For my family—

Markus, Margaretta, Zachary,

Claire, John, and Jack.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

1

“Until fairly recently, the coastal region of islands, marshes, placid rivers and oak-shaded roads had seen relatively little change—but now change is widespread, often overwhelming and sometimes devastating.”

—The National Trust for Historic Preservation

MARCH IS A MOODY TIME of year in the Lowcountry. On any given day, seemingly by whim, the weather is balmy and sweet-smelling and can lure reluctant smiles from the hopeful who dream of cool, tart drinks on steamy afternoons, creamy white magnolia blossoms and scented offshore breezes. Then overnight, everything can change. With a sudden gust of cold wind, winter will reach out with its icy grip to draw a foggy curtain over the gray marsh.

Mama June Blakely had hoped for an early spring, but she was well seasoned and had learned to keep an eye on the sky for dark clouds. A leaden mist hovered close to the water, so thick that Mama June could barely make out Blakely’s Bluff, which stretched out into the gray-green Atlantic Ocean like a defiant fist. A bittersweet smile eased across her lips. She’d always thought it a fitting symbol of her family’s turbulent history with the sea.

Perched high on the bluff was a weather-beaten house that had been in the Blakely family for generations. Bluff House had withstood countless hurricanes and storms to remain the bastion of family gatherings long after most of the old Charleston family’s land holdings were sold off. Each time Mama June looked at the battered house, waves of memories crashed against her stony composure. And when the wind gusted across the marshes, as it did now, she thought the mist swirled like ghosts dancing on the tips of cordgrass.

Thunder rumbled, low and threatening. She tugged her sweater closer to her neck and shifted her gaze to the lowering skies. Weather moved quickly over the South Carolina coastline, and a front like that could bring a quick cloudburst and sudden winds. Worry tugged at her mouth as she turned on her heel and made her way across the polished floors of her home, through the large, airy kitchen, the stocked butler’s pantry, the formal dining room with glistening crystal and mirrors, the front parlor appointed with ancestral furniture and straight out to the front veranda. Gripping the porch railing, she leaned far forward, squinting as she searched the length of ancient roadbed bordered by centuries-old oaks.

Her frown lifted when she spotted a broad, snowy-headed figure walking up the drive, a lanky black dog at his heels. Mama June leaned against the porch pillar, sighing in relief. At that pace, she figured Preston would beat the storm. How many years had she watched and waited for her husband to come in from the fields? Goodness, could it really be nearing fifty years?

Preston Blakely wasn’t a large man physically, but his manner and personality made him imposing to anyone who knew him. People called him formidable in polite company, bull-headed in familiar—and she couldn’t argue. He was walking with a single-minded purpose, heels digging in the soft roadbed and arms swinging. His square chin jutted out, cutting the wind like the mast of a ship.

Lord, what bee was in that man’s britches this time? she thought with a sorry shake of her head.

On reaching the house, Preston sent the dog to the back with a jerk of his index finger. “Go on, now. Settle, Blackjack,” he ordered. Then, raising his head, he caught Mama June’s gaze.

“Hellfire,” he grumbled louder than the thunder, raising his arm and shaking a fistful of crumpled papers in the air. “They’ve gone and done it this time.”

Mama June’s hands tightened on the railing as her husband came up the porch stairs. “Done what?”

“They done got me by the short hairs,” he said on reaching the porch.

“Who got you, dear?”

“The banks!” he roared. “The taxes. The whole cussed economy, that’s who!”

“Sit down a spell, Press, before you pop a valve. Look at you. You’re sweating under that slicker. It’s too hot for such a fuss and, I swanny—” she waved her small hand in the air “—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Taxes and banks and short hairs…”

“I’m talking about this place!”

“There’s no need to shout. I’m old, not deaf.”

“Then listen to what I’m tellin’ you, woman. We’re going to lose it.”

“What? Lose the land?”

“Yes, ma’am, the land,” he said. “And this house you’re so fond of. We’ll lose it all.”

“Press,” she replied, striving for calm. “I don’t understand any of this. How can we lose everything?”

Preston leaned against the railing and looked out over his land. A cool wind rippled the wild grasses like waves upon the ocean.

“Remember when we were reassessed a few months past?” When she nodded, he continued. “Well, here’s what they say this property is worth now. And here’s how much they say we’ve got to pay. Go on,” he said, waving the papers before her. “Read it and weep.”

Mama June reached out to retrieve the crumpled papers and gingerly unfolded them. Her mouth slipped open in a soft gasp. “But…this can’t be right. It’s three times as much as before.”

“Four times as much.”

“We can’t afford that. We’ll appeal. They can’t force us to accept this.”

“They can and they will.”

“There are lots of folks round here that won’t stand for it,” Mama June said, hearing aloud the indignation she felt stirring in her breast. “This can’t just be happening to us.”

“That’s true enough. It’s happening all over. And there’s nothing any of us can do. Folks keep coming from the north in a steady stream.” He shrugged. “And they all want to live along the water for the beautiful views. Trouble is, there’s only so much property to go around. So property values just keep climbing and developers, like my own sweet, avaricious sister, are licking their chomps just biding their time. They’ll wrestle away any and every acre of earth so they can turn around and plow it over with cement.” He raked his thick, short white hair with his fingers. “Hell, I knew it was coming—we all did. I reckon I just didn’t think it would be so quick.”

He gave a rueful smile. “Kinda like a hurricane, eh? Well,” he said with resignation, “looks like we miscalculated on this one. Just like we did with Hugo.”

“We’ve always managed to hang on before. Through the war, the gas crisis, the bad economy, even Hurricane Hugo.”

“I know it. I’ve done my best—God knows I’ve fought the good fight. But I’m old now. And I’m worn out. I don’t have it in me to fight them anymore.”

Mama June stepped forward to rest her hand on his drooping shoulder, alarmed to her core to see her usual bear of a husband so defeated. She was about to offer some platitude, to say “don’t worry, we’ll be fine,” when she felt his shoulders cord up again beneath her palms. He exploded in renewed fury.

“Maybe if that no-good son of ours had stayed home we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Mama June dropped her hand and wrapped her arms around herself. “Let’s don’t start in on Morgan…”

“Don’t you go defending him,” he said, whirling around to face her. “Not to me! He’s my son, dammit. He should be here, helping his father run this plantation. It’s too much for one man. I need his ideas, his energy. Is it too much to ask my only son to take his father’s place?”

“He needs to take his own place in the world,” she countered softly, even as she felt herself harden against her husband. This was an all-too-familiar argument.

“The hell with the world! It’s Sweetgrass that needs him. It’s his duty. His heritage! A Blakely has run Sweetgrass Plantation for eight generations, and though there may only be a few hundred acres left, by God, Sweetgrass is still in Blakely hands.”

“He’s got his own land,” she reminded him.

“His own land?” Preston’s eyes widened with incredulity. “You mean those few measly acres in the wilds of Montana that he hides out in when he’s not out breaking some laws?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. He’s not doing any such thing. He’s protesting!”

“And for what? To protect some bison? Hell,” he said with a snort. “Bison… He grew up calling them buffalo like the rest of us.”

“He’s trying to protect them.”

“He’s playing around. He’s not working that land. He’s not working, period.”

“Stop, Press.” His angry words were shredding her composure like razors.

“Worthless,” he muttered, ignoring her.

She turned and began walking away. “I can’t listen to this….”

“What did I bother working for all these years?” he called after her. “That’s what I want to know. I have no one to pass this all down to.”

She stopped and faced him with a cold stare. “You have your daughter.”

Preston scoffed and brushed away the suggestion with a sweep of his hand.

“You can’t keep brushing Nan aside.”

“Didn’t she do just that to us when she sold off her land?”

“Her husband…”

“That weasel! He only married her for her land.”

“What a thing to say!” She’d thought as much herself but had never granted it voice. “Lest you forget, I sold my land when I married you.”

“That wasn’t the same thing at all, and you know it.”

“I know no such thing.”

“See, there you go. You always take their sides over mine.”

“I do no—”

“I’m your husband! I should be your first concern. For once! I’ve worked all these years like a bull in the harness to keep this land intact, to keep hold of this house with all those antiques you love so much.”

“Don’t even…”

“All of this.” His arm swept out in a grand gesture. “I’ve sweated from dawn to dusk. I’ve spilled blood. I’ve given my heart and soul to this place. My dreams. My youth. And now…” He stopped, clamping his lips tight and looking out at the land with desperation shining moistly in his eyes. “And now it’s gone.”

“Good!” she replied with heart.

Preston spun around to look at her. “What’d you say?”

“You heard me. I said good. Good riddance!” she cried out with a strained voice. She saw the pale blue of his eyes swimming with pain and shock at her outburst. But rather than take it back or soften the words, as she ordinarily might have done, she felt years of anguish burst forth with a volcanic gush.

“All you think about is the loss of this land!” she cried, thrusting the papers into the paunch of his belly. “What about your family? What about that loss? You haven’t spoken with your son in years. Your daughter feels like a pariah. They don’t come around anymore. You’ve driven our children away. But you don’t care about that, do you? You didn’t fight to keep the family, did you? All you care about is this piece of earth. Well, it won’t be long before we’ll die and be buried on this precious land. But who will mourn our passing? I ask you, Preston, will our children weep when we’re gone?”

His face went still before he swung his head away, averting his gaze.

She took a breath to gather her strength and stepped closer to her husband, narrowing the distance. Pounding her breast with her fist, emphasizing each word, she said in a voice betrayed by a shaky timbre, “This land has stolen my children from me. And that is a far greater loss to me. Good riddance, I say. I despise this land!”

“You don’t mean that.” Preston’s voice was low and husky.

She took a long, sweeping glance at the landscape she’d called home for close to five decades. The roiling line of clouds rolled overhead like the closing of a curtain. Then she met his gaze and held it.

“I surely do. From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.”

They stood face-to-face, silently recollecting the wide swath of years cut low by that statement.

Around them the storm broke. Fat drops of rain splattered loudly on the dry ground in gaining crescendo. With each gust of wind the grasses swayed and shook, rattling like castanets. Then the sky opened up and the heavens cried. The roof provided no shelter from the torrents of rain, and both felt the lash of water that whipped through the air.

Mama June doubted the rain hid from Preston the tears coursing a trail down her cheeks. Yet he did not move to console her or offer any word of either argument or comfort. Her shoulders slumped and she retreated inside the house.

Preston stood rock still and watched her go. He was unmoving as he listened to his wife’s tread on the stairs, knowing she made her way to her bedroom. She would likely cloister herself for hours, perhaps for the rest of the evening, shutting him out.

Same as always.

He wouldn’t go after her, wouldn’t try to talk things through lest the words dredged up the past. She couldn’t handle that, and he didn’t know if he could anymore, either. Besides, it wasn’t worth the risk of her retreating to a place far more inaccessible than her bedroom.

He sighed heavily, her name slipping through his lips. “Mary June…”

He’d spoken harshly and was sorry for it. She was delicate when it came to matters of the family. He’d always tried to shelter her from bad news. But this… He squeezed the papers once more in his fist. This had hit too hard. He couldn’t bear this alone. Hellfire, he’d needed someone to share this burden with, and who better than his wife? She was his wife, wasn’t she?

He cast a final glance up toward her room, where she was crying, and knew a sudden pain, as if the lightning in the sky just shot through his heart.

“To hell with it!” he cried, drawing back his hand and throwing the cursed papers into the storm.

The wind caught the papers, hurtling them toward the marsh faster than a Cooper’s hawk. They landed, tangled in the tall grasses, beaten by the rain. Lightning flashed in the blackening sky, and by the time he heard the rumble of thunder, he was in the house, reaching for the snifter of brandy.

The storm passed quickly on its march from the mainland to the sea. Now the air was fresh and the pastel pinks of the sunset had deepened to a rich ocher. Preston sat on the porch, his clothes damp and his skin cold, staring out at the purpling sky while the brandy did its work. Usually Mama June sat rocking beside him in a companionable silence. He felt her absence deeply.

“At least you’re here, aren’t you, boy?” he said, reaching down to pat the black Labrador retriever curled at his feet. Blackjack, who had sneaked back onto the porch the moment Mama June left, raised his dark, melting eyes and gazed at Preston with devotion while his tail thumped with affection. “Good ol’ dog.”

With a heavy sigh he turned his gaze back to the westward slide of the sun. In the years past, he used to relish these waning hours of the day, just rocking and watching the sun set over Sweetgrass, knowing that, at least for one more day, he’d kept the Blakely heritage intact. The plantation once consisted of 1300 acres, yet over the span of three hundred years, one thousand of those acres were sold off. He’d always felt it was his duty as the last remaining Blakely male to try to hold on to what was left so that a Blakely would always have a place to call home. Thinking about this used to bring him a bone-deep satisfaction.

Tonight, he felt no satisfaction in anything. Tonight, he felt that all his efforts had been in vain.

Mama June’s words had cut him to the quick. They’d extinguished the flicker of hope he’d harbored deep in his heart that someday, in the not-too-distant future, his prodigal son would return. Though he’d told no one, night after night he’d see that dream in the hallucinatory hues of the sunsets. In that dream he would be just like that father in the Bible he’d read about. He’d see his son coming up the road and go running out of the house to greet him with outstretched arms. He’d call for a feast to be held, for music to be played, for riches to be shared—all to celebrate his beloved son’s return home after years of fruitless wandering. In his dream he would smile at Mama June and quote, “My son was lost but now is found.”

Preston’s frown deepened. Tonight he couldn’t see his dream in the shadows of the sunset. His rays of hope had extinguished along with the sinking sun, and all that was left was this cold, dark silence. He felt as if he were already dead and put in the earth. Mama June’s words came back to him: Will our children weep when we’re gone?

They would not, he concluded bitterly. Then he downed his drink.

Gripping the sides of the chair, he pulled himself out, tottering as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Too much brandy, he thought as he plodded across the porch. Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped him. Glancing up at the tall clock, he realized with surprise that he’d been sitting out on the porch for several hours. It was no wonder he was chilled to the bone. He moved closer to the staircase and cocked his ear, straining to hear sounds from Mama June’s bedroom. All was quiet. She must have fallen asleep, he thought, resigned to the fact that he would not likely be getting a hot meal for dinner this night.

Truth was, he wasn’t hungry, anyway. All that fighting and drinking made his gut feel off. Besides, he was feeling too restless to eat. He never could settle down after a quarrel with Mama June. Couldn’t rest until they’d made peace. That woman had his soul in her hands and he wondered if she even knew it. Some days, it seemed that she hardly even knew he was here.

He felt his aloneness acutely tonight. It was thrumming in his brain with a pulselike rhythm. He removed his slicker, letting it lie on the back of a chair, and wandered restlessly. His damp feet dragged and his blurry eyes barely took in the rooms as he meandered. His mind was fixed on Mama June’s words.

I despise this land!

Could she have really meant that?

From the day I first stepped foot on it, all this land ever brought me was utter and complete heartbreak.

For him, the day Mary June Clark first stepped her tiny foot on Sweetgrass land was forever etched in his mind. His boyish heart had never known such infatuation, and later, much later, that youthful adoration had matured into a man’s utter and complete devotion.

He’d never heard her speak so plainly. She usually kept strong opinions to herself, never wanting to make another person feel uncomfortable. But those words…it was as if they had all bubbled up from some deep, dank well. Very deep, he thought with a grimace. What was it that Faulkner had said? The past is never dead. It isn’t even past. It nearly broke his heart to think that his life’s efforts had been for naught. No man could bear that.

During one circuit of the house he poured himself another drink. After another, he headed toward the small mahogany desk in the foyer and dug out Mama June’s blue address book. His eyes struggled with the letters and he fumbled for his reading glasses, an indignity of old age to which he’d never become reconciled. After a brief search through her feathery script, he picked up the phone and dialed the number in Montana.

His heart beat hard in his chest as he waited. Steadying himself against the wall, he listened to the phone ring once, twice, then two more times. At last he heard a click and the dreaded pause of a machine.

Hi. This is Morgan. I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a brief message and I’ll call you back.

Preston was unprepared for the impact of his son’s voice after so many years of silence. He fumbled with the phone cord a moment, his tongue feeling unusually thick in his mouth. When the beep sounded he skipped a beat, then blurted, “Uh, Morgan, it’s your dad. I, uh…” Preston felt a sudden confusion and struggled to put his thoughts to words. He gripped the phone tight while his heart pounded. “I called to…to talk to you. Anyway, I—” This was going badly. He had to end it. “Well, goodbye, son.”

Preston’s hands shook as he hung up the phone. He leaned against the desk, panting as if he’d just plowed the back forty. Damn, he was even sweating! What bad luck that on his first call in years he got some damned answering machine.

The sadness in his heart weighed heavily in his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath and he felt as weak as a woman, barely able to bear his own weight. He pushed back from the desk, straightening, then felt again a surge of light-headedness, as if he might pass out. He staggered out to the porch, determined to let a few deep breaths of the cool ocean air balance him.

At the creak of the door Blackjack leapt from the cushioned settee and came trotting to his side, tail wagging.

“Back, boy,” he mumbled, stumbling past him.

The dog whined and pressed his muzzle persistently against his leg.

“Back!” he cried, swinging his arm. He lost his balance and reached out in a panic, searching for something—anything—to hold on to. His eyesight went blurry, and with frightening suddenness, he was teetering in the darkness. The thrumming in his head became a brutal pounding, building in crescendo, louder and louder. He was going down. His arms reached out toward the house as he hit the floor and it felt as if the lightning struck in his brain this time, jolting him, seizing his muscles. Everything went white with blinding pain.

“Mary Ju—”

The white faded to black. Then all was still.

2

Sweetgrass (Muhlenbergia filipes) is an indigenous, long stemmed plant that grows in tufts along the coastal dunes from North Carolina to Texas. This native plant is fast disappearing from the landscape due to urbanization and development of coastal islands and marshland.

THE ENGINE OF THE PICKUP truck churned loudly as it idled before the ornate black wrought-iron gates. Atop the gate, fashioned in the same elaborate scroll, a single word was forged: Sweetgrass. The truck vibrated with the idling engine, but that was not the cause of the quake in Morgan Blakely’s heart.

The truck door squeaked on its hinges as he pushed it open. A breeze of sweet-smelling air rushed into the stale compartment, awakening him from the lethargy of travel. With another push, his feet landed on Lowcountry soil for the first time in more than a decade. He rolled his shoulders, stiff under his denim jacket. Then, lifting his face to the moist, early morning air, he yawned wide and rubbed his face with callused palms. Forty some hours of hard driving sure could make a man’s muscles ache, he thought. He still felt the miles rolling beneath his feet. No wonder. It had taken him 850 miles on I-90 just to get out of Montana.

He hadn’t thought the Road Buzzard would make the journey, but the old Chevy limped along the roads like a dog finding its way home. Nope, they didn’t build them like they used to, he thought, giving the battleship-gray truck a pat of respect. He’d bought it when he was twenty-one and, being young and proud, had pumped serious money into it, adding a hitch, a winch, a toolbox and liner and, of course, a powerful sound system. Back then, he had money burning a hole in his pocket, dreams of adventure blurring his vision and enough anger and rebellion in his gut to fuel his own manifest destiny. He’d roared down this same road full throttle and never looked back.

It had been a long, hard journey. Now, years later, his tires were worn and his speakers were blown. Before leaving Montana, he’d stuffed what little extra money he had into his wallet, enough to get him home.

Home. Morgan surveyed the impenetrable wall of bush and pines that surrounded the family property from the prying eyes of folks zooming along busy Highway 17. A ragged culvert ran along the road—like a moat around a castle, he thought, mulishly kicking the gravel. He walked off to open the heavy gates. A moment later, he drove into his family’s estate.

The sunlight dappled the road as the truck crawled along. In the surrounding trees, birds and squirrels chattered at the dawn, and from the ground, a quail fluttered, squawking, into the air. At every turn, sights brought back memories he’d kept pushed back for a long while. He saw the crumbling ruins of the old smokehouse where, in colonial time, meat was preserved. Not far from it, near an underground stream of water, was the foundation of what was once a dairy. Milk and cheese used to be kept cold in the frigid waters. The spot had been a favorite play fort for the Blakely children.

Farther on by the western border lay a large peach orchard. Morgan frowned with worry at the sorry condition of the once meticulously maintained grounds. Beyond that lay the family graveyard. A little farther up the road, the trees opened to reveal a vast, cleared and mowed space that was used by the parish for Sunday picnics, oyster roasts, turkey shoots and other church functions.

He rounded a final, wide curve in the road. What he saw made him bring the truck to a stop. As the engine rumbled beneath him, he leaned forward on the steering wheel. The wave of homesickness surprised him.

Before him in the misty air of early morning was the long, formal avenue to his family home. Massive live oaks dripping lacy moss lined the narrow dirt road, sweeping low, like ancient sentries from a graceful time long gone. If the road’s culvert was the moat of this kingdom, he thought, then these noble oaks surely were her knights.

At the end of the long avenue, the Southern colonial house awaited him like a charming belle—petite, pretty and eager to welcome him into her warmth. His father loved the house like a woman—its slender white columns, the sweeping Dutch gambrel roof and the delicately arched dormers framed with quaint squares of glass. The low foundation was made of brick and oyster-shell lime, meant to last.

And it had. The house had survived two hundred years of storms, wars, tragedies and the vagaries of fortune. She was a survivor. His father had fondly referred to the house as having “pluck.”

Suddenly the front door swung open and a petite woman with hair as white as the house appeared on the threshold, clutching a pale-blue night robe close around her neck. Morgan swallowed hard with recognition. Why had he never noticed before how very much like the house his mother was? It dawned on Morgan that his father must have made that comparison many times, as well.

Morgan slowly rounded the circle, then stopped before the house. Blackjack bounded from the porch and scurried down the front stairs, tail straight up and barking in warning. Morgan cut the engine and the truck shuddered to a halt.

When did her hair grow so white? he wondered. Or grow so frail a gust of wind could carry her away? The years seemed to stretch long between them as he stared out through the dark windshield and calculated that his mother was now sixty-six years old.

The black Lab had aged, too. Blackjack ran on stiff legs and his muzzle was completely white now, but he could still raise the dead with his barking. Morgan pushed open the door. Instantly, the large dog bounded forward, lowering his head, ears back, sniffing hard.

“Hey there, Blackjack,” Morgan said as his feet hit the earth and he slowly extended his hand. “Remember me?”

At the sound of his voice the dog took a step closer, placing his gray muzzle right to the hand. Then recognition clicked in the dog’s cloudy eyes, and with a sudden leap Blackjack began yelping and barking with unbridled joy.

“You’re getting old, aren’t you, Blackie, ol’ boy?” Morgan said with a laugh, playfully petting the old dog and feeling a surge of affection for being welcomed with such devotion.

“Morgan!”

The sound of his mother’s voice pierced Blackjack’s clamor. Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly raised himself and looked over his shoulder toward her. His gaze locked with a pair of blue eyes that were shining bright through tears. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. Mother and son stood staring for an intense moment, then she flung open her arms and took a faltering step forward.

Morgan wiped his hands on his thighs and then closed the distance to her side in a few long strides. Mama June reached up to wrap her arms around him in a trembling embrace and instantly Morgan was enveloped again in the scent of gardenias.

“Oh, my dear, dear boy!” she cried. “It’s so good to see you. Shame on you for staying away so long. I’ve missed you!”

She felt his resistance in the stiffness of his arms and it pained her deeply, yet she clung a moment longer, as though her love would be strong enough to melt his iciness.

He felt awkward in the sudden emotion and drew back with shuffling steps, offering her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, Mama June.”

She held him at arm’s length. “Darlin’, let me get a good look at you. You’re so thin! Aren’t you getting enough to eat?”

“I eat fine.”

“I’ll just bet you do…. Don’t you worry, we’ll take care of that while you’re here.”

As her eyes devoured him, his did likewise. She was different somehow. Mama June had always been slender, but time had rounded her edges and softened her skin. Her face was sleep-worn and he figured Blackjack’s barking had awakened her. Yet she didn’t look tired—that wasn’t the right word. Older. It shocked him to see it.

In his mind, his mother was always the same age as the last time he’d seen her. She was a wren of a woman, with bright eyes that shone with curiosity and quick movements that, while graceful, reflected the swift turns of her thoughts. Her hair, still long, was now a snowy white and loosely bound in a thin braid that fell over one shoulder. It was a style both old-fashioned and reminiscent of a young girl’s.

He’d known she’d be older, of course. He’d not been home in years. But knowing it and seeing it were two different things. Yet her excitement colored her high cheekbones with a youthful flush, her joyous smile brought out deep dimples and her blue eyes sparkled like a light burning bright in a window.

Mama June grinned with elation. “I…I just can’t believe you’re here! It’s a blessing! A true blessing. Oh, Morgan, what a surprise! Why didn’t you call and let us know you were coming?”

“I didn’t want to put anyone out. I figured y’all had your hands full with Daddy right now.”

Her smile slipped. “You got my message?”

Morgan nodded. “And I talked to Nan.”

Confusion flickered in Mama June’s eyes. “Nan? Your sister didn’t tell me she spoke with you.”

“I asked her not to. I wasn’t trying to be secretive, nothing like that. I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do and, well, I didn’t want to…”

“Get my hopes up?”

He laughed shortly and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I guess.”

Her brows furrowed. “What made you decide to come?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “I couldn’t not come. I know it’s been strained between us, but hell, he’s still my father.”

“Oh, Morgan, I’m sorry not to have been the one to tell you. I tried to call you right after your father was brought to the hospital, but there was no answer. I kept trying and finally just left the message. It wasn’t an easy message to leave and I hated doing it. I’m glad Nan at least called you.”

“She didn’t call me. I called her. After I got Daddy’s phone message.”

She skipped a beat and her eyes widened. “His…his what? Preston called you? When?”

“A little over a week ago. Out of the blue. As luck would have it, I was on a hunting trip and didn’t get the message till the following week.” He paused, releasing a short laugh. “When I heard his voice on the machine, I sat hard in the chair, I can tell you. I listened to that message over and over again, just so I could believe it was the ol’ coot. Then I got your message.” He paused. “It hit me pretty hard. I just grabbed a map and every dollar in the house, got in the truck and drove south.”

Mama June’s jaw was slack with disbelief. “Preston called you…”

“You didn’t know that he’d called?” Morgan asked, surprised.

She shook her head. “What did he want?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. He was vague, almost stumbling, like he didn’t really know what to say. In the end, he muttered something about wanting to talk and then he hung up.”

Morgan saw a multitude of emotions flutter through his mother’s eyes as she stared off a moment and brought her fingertips to her lips. He remembered she was tenderhearted, and moved to comfort her. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Oh, yes, dear, I’m fine,” she replied perfunctorily, but this was her pat answer and Morgan didn’t believe her. She tilted her head and said with a tone of sadness, “Your father never fails to amaze me, that’s all.”

“Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather, that’s for sure.”

They shared a brief, commiserating laugh. The unpredictable nature of Preston Blakely was a family joke, and sharing it, Morgan felt one step closer to home.

“How is he?” he asked.

Her smile faltered as her tone grew troubled. “He’s not good. It was a very severe stroke. The doctors don’t know if he’ll walk again. Maybe not even talk.”

Morgan cursed under his breath. “I had no idea it was so bad.”

“What’s worse is knowing that beneath the still facade, he’s just as mad as a wet hornet to be lying in bed, cooped up in that hospital. You know your daddy. He never spent more than a day in bed, no matter how sick he was.”

“It’s ironic.”

“It’s unfair, is what it is.” Mama June tightened the sash around her waist and drew herself up. “There’s a lot to be discussed, but it’s getting chilly standing out here in my slippers and robe. And you have an empty stomach.” She slipped her arm inside his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come inside where it’s warm and let me feed you some breakfast. You must be famished.”

“Sounds great.” Morgan quickly grabbed a dusty black duffel bag from the back of the truck.

His vehicle, his clothes, even his luggage seemed coated with dust, like a caravan arriving from the desert. He’d traveled many miles. And now he was home, she thought, her heart near bursting. She led the way to the house, her critical eye taking in the shabby appearance of her usually pristine home. She’d been too preoccupied with Preston’s stroke to notice. She flushed that the porch settee cushion was covered with Blackjack’s hair, that dirt and cobwebs collected around the base of the empty porch planters. Here it was April, and she’d yet to fill them with pansies.

Blackjack paused at the foot of the stairs, eyes beseeching.

Mama June turned and pointed, directing the dog to his den under the porch. “I don’t know why I bother. He’ll likely sneak up soon as our backs are turned. Been doing that ever since your father took to the hospital. I expect Blackjack’s looking for him. I can’t recall when Preston has been away from the place for more than a day.”

“Seems pretty quiet around here. Is Nona around?” asked Morgan.

“Goodness, no! Nona retired soon after you left. Keeps herself busy with her sweetgrass baskets. Our paths haven’t crossed much since then, but I stop by her stand for a catch-up from time to time.”

“House got too dull without me, I reckon.”

“Oh, I’m sure that was the reason,” Mama June replied as she opened wide the front door.

The sunlight filled the front hall and fresh air gusted in. Suddenly she felt full of joy, like a young mother again, calling her child into the house.

“Come in, Morgan. Welcome home!”

Mama June’s heart skipped as, grinning, she ushered Morgan into the house. There was an awkward pause as they stopped in the high-ceilinged foyer and considered what to do first. It was finally decided that they’d freshen up before breakfast. Mama June led the way up the wide staircase, flicking on lights before her. Behind her, Morgan’s head turned from left to right in a sweeping survey. His worried brow told her he’d noticed how the once-lustrous creamy walls had darkened to a dusky gray and how the silk on the antique chairs was as threadbare as the festoons of curtains that flowed to the frayed carpeting on the stairs, worn in spots to the wood.

“I gather Daddy still puts every penny into the farm?” he asked.

“And he owes another penny,” she replied lightly. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

“Well, it’s nice to see ol’ Beatrice never changes,” he teased, pointing to a painting of a straight-backed, stern-faced woman in nineteenth-century clothes wearing a bright red cap. Beatrice Blakely was a founding member of the Blakely clan in the colonies, second wife of Oliphant, “Ol’ Red,” who had arrived on American soil earlier with a land grant.

“You ever figure out what she was scowling about?”

Mama June snorted. “Taxes, no doubt. Taxes have been the bane of this family’s existence since Beatrice’s day. Morgan…” The sentence was left hanging for he’d moved on to the bedroom down the hall and opened the door.

Mama June paused but her gaze followed him. She saw him standing quietly, still holding on to his bag as he looked around his old room. She took a breath and hurried across the hall to the dimly lit room.

“I wish I’d had notice of your coming. I’d have opened things up for you.”

She made a beeline for the window. With a couple of firm tugs, she pulled back the heavy blue drapes. A flotilla of dust motes danced in the sunshine. She waved them away, her cheeks coloring. She went to the other window to open the drapes and pry wide that window, as well.

“I don’t come in these rooms much anymore,” she said, looking around with a frown. She turned toward him again, slapping the dust from her hands.

He hadn’t moved. He stood with a strange expression on his face as he took in the iron double bed covered in a navy crazy quilt and, over it, the ancient needlepoint rendition of the family crest. On the other walls hung paintings of the creeks, marsh and sailboats that he’d loved so much growing up. Under one dormer sat his pine schoolroom desk and chair, its soft yellow wood scarred with scratches. Opposite it, his tall bureau was missing the same two pulls. The only things she’d removed were his motley collection of dusty liquor bottles and posters of long-forgotten rock groups.

“It’s like I’ve stepped back in time,” he said.

I wish, she thought, but said nothing as she puttered about the room, absently moving a chair an inch, tugging at the bedspread.

“Everything is pretty much as you left it. We knew you’d be back, sooner or later. I’ll tidy it up this afternoon.”

“It’s a sight better than what I’m used to.”

He dropped his bag, then stretched his arms wide, yawning as loud as a bear rousing from hibernation. The boyish gesture caught her by surprise, spiraling her back in time to when a young Morgan took great pleasure in yawning wide or belching loud, more to shock her than for anything else. She half smiled at the memory.

“I suppose you still know where everything is,” she said, wringing hands that longed to reach out and touch him. Her heart ached just seeing him again—her son here in his old room! Yet she didn’t dare embarrass him with maudlin shows of affection. He’d always been reticent to receive her hugs and backed off from kisses. Today, the invisible wall he’d built around himself was tangible.

“There should be fresh towels and soap in the bathroom. I’ll go check to be sure. It’s been so long since we’ve had an overnight guest.” Then, realizing she’d just put her son into the category of guest, she stumbled on to say, “But you’re not a guest, of course!” She clasped her hands tight. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Yep. I’m fine. Thanks,” he replied, scrubbing his face with his palms.

“You take a minute and rest, hear? You look exhausted.”

“I just might do that. It was a long drive.”

“Well…” She faltered again for words. “I best go see to breakfast.”

He only nodded so she merely departed, closing the door quietly behind her.

She stood for a moment outside the room, gathering her wits. Was this really happening? Morgan was here? She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock already. And she still in her nightgown! It was high time she made herself decent, she thought, hurrying to her own room at the other end of the hall.

With the swiftness of routine, she quickly dressed into her usual daytime attire of a long khaki skirt, a crisp cotton blouse and comfortable shoes. Her fingers deftly wound her braid into a bun and fastened it with a few bobby pins. Then she splashed her face with cool water and applied a swipe of color across her lips. She wasn’t a vain woman and neither was she much interested in fashion. Her day clothes were comfortable, and for special occasions she relied on classic quality that stood the test of time. Though gravity had taken its toll, her dress size hadn’t changed dramatically over the years, and some of the dresses in her closet dated back to the earlier days of her marriage when they’d entertained more frequently. It always amused her when her vintage gowns came back in style.

After a quick glance in the mirror, she felt much more together and ready to face her day. She wrapped her happiness around her like a shawl and went out to begin the myriad chores formulating in her mind.

A short while later, Mama June was standing at the stove stirring grits with one hand and, with her other, making a list of things she had to get done that day. First on the list was to announce Morgan’s homecoming to the family and to invite them for Sunday dinner. At-Home Sunday Dinner had been a family tradition for generations, but like so many other traditions, this one had fallen by the wayside because of busy schedules, folks moving off and the altered priorities of modern-day living. Now the family dinners were relegated to holidays and reunions.

Certainly, Morgan’s return was enough reason for a family celebration, she thought, her lips curving in anticipation. It’d been ages since she’d spread the white damask across the dining room table and lit the candles in the polished candelabra. She’d make sherried she-crab soup, Morgan’s favorite. Chicken fricassee might be nice, she thought, jotting down ingredients on her list.

Oh, how she’d love to have Nona’s biscuits. Her smile broadened. Nona’s biscuits… They were pure magic, like biting into air. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d enjoyed them. From time to time she stopped by Nona’s basket stand along Highway 17 to catch up, though it had been a while. Thoughts of Nona nagged as she added a few more items to her grocery list.

“Something smells good.”

Mama June’s head darted up to see Morgan enter the room. The sight of his bent head and lanky form in her kitchen once again filled her heart. His thick hair was spiky and damp from his shower, and his shirt of a pale blue that matched his eyes was wrinkled but fresh. He appeared a bit more relaxed, though his face still had the chalky sheen of deep fatigue.

“Coffee’s hot, country ham is warming in the oven and the tasso gravy is thickening nicely,” she said in a cheery voice. “Looks like you could use some of all of the above. Go on, darlin’, sit down now. The table’s all set. The Post and Courier is there, too. You might enjoy catching up on the local news.”

“Thanks,” he replied, moving with a preoccupied shuffle to the table.

She hummed softly as she fell into the old pattern of preparing breakfast for her son. Time was, every morning she’d fussed like a hen at her chick, urging him to eat a hearty meal before he dashed from the house, hurrying because he’d slept too late. Morgan had always been as slim as a beanpole, no matter how much or how often he ate. Her gaze drifted back to her son. He seemed so different, yet so much the same. The cut of his jaw was like her own. His blue eyes like his father’s. His brown hair was still thick and in need of a good haircut, and he’d kept that lean, lanky physique, too, she thought, watching him stretch his long legs under the table. But the boy had filled out to a man in his chest and shoulders.

Her heart constricted as she began filling his plate with grits, country ham and eggs. “So, tell me,” she said, opening the conversation. “What’s going on up in the wilds of Montana?”

“Nothing much.”

“I gather you still like it way out yonder?”

“It suits me fine.”

“I don’t know how you manage, living alone so far out. You’re so isolated. I’d think you’d get pretty lonely.”

“I do all right.”

So he was not going to be forthcoming. Well, there was more than one way to eke out information. She cut the heat on the stove, then brought the plate over and set it down in front of him.

He stared at the food with eyes as wide as saucers. The food was piled high, overflowing the edges of the porcelain. A giant couldn’t eat all of it and she felt a flush of embarrassment. It was obvious she was trying so hard to please.

“I’ll try to do it justice,” he said, picking up a fork.

“Perhaps I got a little carried away. Just eat what you can,” she said, rubbing her palms on her apron. “I’ll freshen up your coffee.”

She hurried to add coffee to his cup, then poured a cup for herself. To keep from standing and staring at him, she began rinsing out the frying pan.

“Last time you wrote,” she ventured, “you said you were finished with all that bison-protection activity you were so involved in.”

“We got legislation passed. Things are better. It was time to move on. Besides, the politics were demoralizing.”

“But I don’t understand. Didn’t you win?”

“It wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about preserving a natural resource.”

She was being inquisitive and he was cutting her off again. It was a familiar impasse. Their few phone calls over the years had always left her digging for clues and feeling frustrated by the time she lowered the telephone receiver.

Mama June’s brows furrowed as she returned to her dishes. She was silent for a moment, but when she was drying the pan, she glanced to the table and noticed that he’d already set his fork back on the table after only a few bites.

“Too much salt?” she asked, concerned. “Preston always tells me I’m a heavy salter.”

“No, it’s fine.” He picked up the fork again. “I was walking around upstairs, just looking around,” he said, his eyes on the fork he was twiddling between his fingers. “I went into Ham’s room.” He set the fork down. “I noticed that Daddy’s things are in there.”

Mama June carefully folded the drying towel and set it on the counter. Morgan looked up at her with question burning in his eyes.

“Yes,” she replied at length. “That’s his room now.”

“Since when have you had separate bedrooms?”

“I can’t really remember for how long now.” She could be evasive, too.

She hesitated, wondering how much to share with her son. He wasn’t a boy, no matter how much she sometimes thought he was. He was a grown man and familiar with the ways of life. The trouble between her and Preston had been years in the making, a highly private, personal story between a husband and a wife.

She never had been one for speaking out and voicing her inner thoughts and troubles to others. The way some women went on about personal matters always made her feel as if she’d peeked through their windows. She’d always been one to close her curtains at night, and to her mind, what room was more personal than the bedroom? Son or no, this wasn’t really any of Morgan’s business.

“You needn’t look so shocked. It’s not all that uncommon after a certain age. And now with the stroke, of course, who knows what?” She carried more rolls to the table.

“Stop serving me, Mama June!”

She froze at his outburst.

Morgan looked at her sheepishly and pulled out a chair beside him. “Come on, sit, Mama. You don’t need to cater. Please.”

Mama June set the rolls on the table, then slid wordlessly into the chair.

Morgan placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry about the way I just showed up on your doorstep.”

“Oh, that!” she said, recovering herself and brushing the awkwardness away. “This is your home. You’re here. That’s all that matters to me. It will mean so much to your father, too. You can’t know.”

She saw anguish flash in his eyes before he dropped his hand. “Yeah, well…”

“It will.”

After a minute he said, “I should go see him. Do they allow visitors?”

She heard his declaration as duty rather than heartfelt worry. It defeated her.

“Of course they allow visitors,” she replied. “The more the better. For the last ten days I’ve been reduced to begging folks to sign up and visit. I’ve received roomfuls of flowers and get well cards and more casseroles than I can freeze. Everyone’s been very kind. And yet, no one seems to have the time or desire to go to the hospital and sit with him. It’s so important that someone just be with him, you see. He’s so helpless. Like a baby.” She hesitated. “You…you’ll be surprised when you see him. I hate to leave him there alone. You hear horror stories of mistakes being made in the hospital, or of things overlooked in the charts. I drive downtown every day and stay as long as I can, but it’s not enough.”

“I’ll go.”

She patted his hand fervently. “Thank you. It will mean so much to him.”

“When will Daddy be getting out of the hospital?”

“That’s undecided.” She drew her hand back and leaned against the chair. She glanced over to the kitchen counter where she saw the cookbooks spread open and the shopping list—all preparations for Sunday dinner. For all the joy of Morgan’s homecoming, she knew there would likely be another round of debate once the family gathered.

“What’s the matter, Mama June?”

She looked at his long, thoughtful face and flashed to the boy who once sat at this table beside her wolfing down cold cereal, swinging his legs as he looked out the window, eager to get outdoors. He’d always been tenderhearted. Yet she’d rarely talked to him about things that plagued her, unlike with her daughter, Nan, with whom she used to talk freely.

“I’m so confused,” she said with new honesty. “I don’t know what to do.”

He sat straighter in his chair, appreciating the confidence. “Are you worried about taking care of him? I’m sure the staff at the hospital will teach you what to do. And you can get help once you bring him home.”

“That’s just it. Your aunt Adele tells me I should not bring him home.”

“Oh.” He paused, his eyes shuttered. “Really?”

There had always been an odd tension between Preston’s sister, Adele, and Morgan. His tone told her that time had not diminished the coolness.

“Adele is worried that he won’t get the care he needs here. She thinks we are risking his recovery if we don’t place him somewhere he can get professional treatment.”

“Like a nursing home?” he asked, aghast.

“More a residential treatment facility. The costs of home care will be very high and…” She waved her hand. “Oh, it all makes sense when she explains it to me. She’s done a lot of homework and went over the numbers with me. I can’t remember half of what she told me—except that I should sell Sweetgrass.”

“Sell Sweetgrass…” Morgan exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Wow. I hadn’t, I mean, I never considered that a possibility.”

“Adele says that selling Sweetgrass would free me to provide for Preston and myself without worry of becoming a burden.” She looked at her hands and fiddled with the plain gold band on her left hand. “We’ve never wanted that, you know. To be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden.”

“No, not yet. But according to Adele, we could be. Quite quickly.”

“Adele always deals in absolutes. You know that.” He rubbed his jaw in consternation. “If the stroke doesn’t kill Daddy, selling Sweetgrass will.”

“My thought exactly!” she exclaimed. She took great heart that someone was finally understanding her point of view. And that the someone was her son.

“What do the doctors say? Can Daddy even be moved?”

“They feel he can come home, provided we get assistance, of course, like an army of therapists, an aide and equipment.” She could hear the hopefulness in her own voice.

“Hiring support will cost money.”

“Yes.”

“Can you afford it?”

“For a while. Maybe a very little while.” Mama June sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I keep fussing about the decision. Adele was pretty clear about what I should do. Sell Sweetgrass and move. Hank and Nan agree.”

He considered this a moment, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I have to think about what’s best for Preston.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you right now. I’m asking what you want to do.”

She sat back against the ladder-back chair. It occurred to her that in all the many conversations with Adele, Nan and Hank, with the doctors, with the banks and lawyer, everyone had told her what he or she thought Mama June should do. No one had ever asked what she might want to do. No one, except Morgan.

“To be honest, I don’t really know. When your father had his stroke, I was unprepared to make even small, everyday decisions concerning Sweetgrass. Now suddenly I’m thrust into the position of making all the decisions. Preston is going to need a great deal of care before he gets well—if he gets well. I’ve tried to think what’s best for him, and for all of us and…”

“You’re veering off again,” he said gently.

“Oh, Morgan, I’m sixty-six years old. I’m too old to start over. I’ve lived in this house for nearly fifty years. This is where you were raised. This is our home. We’ve been happy here and…” She raised her eyes to his in mute appeal for understanding. “All my memories are here.”

“Mama, what do you want to do?”

Mama June reached up to pat his cheek affectionately. Dropping her hand, she said, “I can’t separate the decision of what I want to do for myself from what I must do for the family. To my mind—and to your father’s—the Blakelys are Sweetgrass.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Daddy.” He brought his face closer. “What do you want to do?” he persisted.

She found his pressure exhausting and lowered her forehead into her palm. “I don’t know.”

He leaned forward and this time kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama. I’m not trying to annoy you. I was just hoping to hear what you wanted, for a change. Tell you what. You stay home today and mull it over. I’ll go downtown to this hospital and check on Daddy.”

3

During the days of slavery in the Old South, men made large work baskets from bull rush because this marsh grass was strong and durable. Women made functional baskets for the home using sweetgrass, which was softer and abundant. Today’s baskets are made with sweetgrass, bull rush and long-leaf pine needles bound together by strips of the unopened center leaves of palmetto trees.

NAN’S HAND RESTED ON the telephone receiver as she gathered her wits.

“Close your mouth, Mama. You’re catching flies.” Harry jabbed his younger brother in the ribs as they laughed. They were gathered around the table, waiting on dinner.

Nan snapped her mouth shut only for as long as it took her to smile. She hurried over to the table.

“You won’t believe it!” she announced, her voice rising. She was rewarded with the rarity of the complete attention of her teenage sons, Harry and Chas, as well as her husband, Hank.

Looking at the bunch, she thought there could be no doubt who the boys’ father was. Not that she and Hank looked all that different from each other. The boys both had their parents’ blond hair and bright blue eyes. Harry, at seventeen, had the Blakely height and slender build, while it looked as though Chas would be shorter and more muscular, like Hank. Though at fifteen, he might sprout another few inches and be taller than his father.

Hank’s neatly cropped blond head emerged from behind the Post and Courier. “We won’t believe what?”

“That was Mama June. You’ll never guess who’s home!”

“Morgan,” answered Hank with little enthusiasm, returning his attention to the newspaper.

Nan felt a flutter of disappointment that his quick answer stole the thunder from her announcement. She rallied. “Yes! That doesn’t surprise you?”

“Not really. Your father is in the hospital. It’s only fitting he’d come home.”

“What’s the big deal?” Chas asked sullenly, disappointed in the news.

“Yeah, who cares?” added Harry. “We barely know who he is.”

Her pale brows furrowed with displeasure at their lackluster reaction as she cut the heat on the stove with a quick twist of her wrist. “Well, it took me by surprise.”

Sometimes it was just plain hard living with a bunch of males, she thought. They just didn’t get it. Matters of family didn’t register. She was sick to death of listening to their endless sports reports or excruciating details about cars. Sometimes she felt as though she were talking to herself throughout the meal, desperately trying to engage them in conversation while they ignored her and shoveled food.

Nan looked at her sons. Despite their outwardly good looks, they sometimes struck her as spiritless. She didn’t detect the spark of drive or ambition or dreams that gave even ordinary-looking boys such appeal. She brushed aside her disappointment and told herself they were just going through a phase.

With practiced efficiency she gave the rice a final lift and poured the mass into a brightly colored serving bowl that coordinated with the dinner china. Then with a quick grab of serving spoons, she carried the rice and a bowl of buttered beans to the table of waiting men. She sat in her chair and they all bowed their heads and said the blessing.

“It’s a sorry state of affairs that y’all feel so blasé about your only uncle being in town.” Nan handed Harry the bowl of rice to pass.

“He’s not our only uncle,” corrected Harry, taking hold of the serving spoons and helping himself. “We’ve got Uncle Phillip and Uncle Joe living right close. We see them all the time.”

“On my side, I meant. In the Blakely family, there’s just me and Morgan.”

Hank relinquished his newspaper to take his turn with the rice. “I don’t know where you get this me and him stuff,” he argued. “Seems to me your brother is a me only kind of guy. In all the years I’ve known him, Morgan’s made it pretty clear how he feels about family. How long have we been married? We’ve seen him, what? Two or three times? It’s his own fault that his nephews don’t know who he is.”

“I know, I know,” Nan released in a moan, bringing the country-fried steak on a matching serving platter closer. Still, the criticism seemed to her unfair. “Morgan has a lot of history to deal with, don’t forget.”

Her hands rested on the platter as she paused and looked around the table. It was moments like this, seeing her family gathered together, that she treasured most. “I’m truly blessed to have you and the boys,” she said, gifting each of them with a loving look. “Morgan has nothing or no one. It’s just so sad, is all.”

“Uh, Mama…” Harry lifted his brows, his gaze intent on the meat.

“Oh.” The moment was gone. She reached out her hand with alacrity to pass the platter of meat around, followed by the beans. One by one the plates were topped with enormous mounds of rice, thick slices of fried steak and scoops of beans.

“Pass the gravy, Chas,” Harry demanded.

Nan rose to carry the serving dishes to the sideboard. The boys were growing faster than cotton in July and she never seemed able to fill the bottomless pits they called their stomachs. She sighed as she watched them dive into their plates. The thought that it would be polite to wait for their mother to be seated at the table before eating never even crossed their minds. She looked at Hank for support, but he was ladling gravy on his rice, oblivious to the poor manners of his sons.

“Boys…” she muttered as she reached for her glass and poured herself a liberal glass of wine. When she took her seat at the opposite head of the table, no one so much as lifted a head. Nan sipped her wine, shoving her plate aside.

At least they were eating together as a family, she told herself, tamping down the disappointment she always felt at mealtime. Mama June had always maintained lively discussions at the dinner table, encouraging each of her children to join in. Nan remembered heated debates and merciless teasing and, always, laughter.

At least until Hamlin died. Her brother had been so alive! A natural storyteller with a joke or a quip always dangling at his tongue. Everything had changed after he was gone. To this day, she mourned.

When Nan married, she’d tried to restore the vitality in her own family that she’d felt was lost in the Blakelys after the tragedy of her brother’s death had torn the family apart. At the very least, she was keeping the family dinner tradition alive.

Suddenly, she remembered something else.

“Oh, yes! Mama June wants us all to come for Sunday dinner.”

This announcement was met with rolled eyes and groans from the boys.

“You just stop that, hear? You haven’t been to see your grandmother in so long, she’s taken to asking after you. Don’t you realize how lonely she is with Granddaddy in the hospital? You two boys are the apples of her eye and it’s a scandal how seldom you pay her visits. I should take your car privileges away.” It was a feeble threat and everyone knew it. Still, she felt compelled to assert some semblance of authority. “You are going to Sunday dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they muttered, sullenly appealing to their father with their eyes.

Hank polished his glasses with his napkin, a habit she’d come to recognize as a preface to a lecture. “Morgan’s being here will just complicate things, you realize.”

“I don’t see how. He’s here to see Daddy. I don’t expect he’ll stay long.”

“Not if he’s true to form, he won’t. But you know your mama’s been real uneasy about leaving Sweetgrass, no matter how we’ve tried to reason with her.”

“I don’t expect his visit will make a difference one way or the other. More’s the pity. Mama June could use the support of her family now. I wish he would take an interest.”

“Are you so sure? We haven’t seen the will and he is the only remaining Blakely.”

She swirled her wine and replied dryly, “Last I looked, I’m still alive and I’m still a Blakely.”

“You know what I mean,” he said.

She tilted her head and drank. “I’m afraid I do.”

“You’re not a Blakely any more,” Chas said, looking up with an obstinate glare. “You’re a Leland.”

Hank chuckled and raised his brows at his wife.

Nan’s gaze swept the three sets of eyes that looked at her from across the table with a possessiveness she found oddly comforting. She thought back to the time her father had said those same words to her. Preston’s tanned and deeply lined face, usually thoughtful, had been hard and his eyes were like blue chips of ice. She shivered at the memory. That day she’d told her father that she’d decided to follow her new husband’s wishes and sell the fifty coastal acres deeded to her at her marriage. Hank had brokered a deal with a local development firm and it had been a major boost to his career in real estate.

She had been a young bride, behaving in the manner in which she’d been bred. A woman’s place was at her husband’s side. As the wife, she was the accommodator, the peacemaker, the right hand to her husband. She was doing what her culture—what the Bible—taught.

That deal had cost her. To her father’s mind, selling the family land had severed her tie to the family. Her father cast her from the status of an “us” to a “them” in his polarized vision of the world. It wasn’t something spoken; he was never one to confront her about it. He held his disappointment inside, simmering under the cool surface. The separation was felt indirectly, subtly, so that the relationship cooled not overnight, but over the course of months and years. Nan had always felt his silent treatment was undeserved. And it had hurt her, deeply.

“I surely am a Leland,” she replied to Harry’s assertion. “But you have Blakely blood running through your veins, too, don’t forget.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” her husband joked, jabbing at the meat with his fork.

“Now, that’s not nice.” Nan flushed as the boys barked out a laugh. She sat back in her chair, feeling as though a chasm had expanded between the two sides of the table, dividing them. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded her husband. For all his jokes, Hank had been plenty thrilled to be part of the historical Blakely clan when he’d married into it.

Though she couldn’t blame him for his change of heart. Daddy’s indifference toward him had been positively embarrassing.

She looked at her hands, tanned and slim. Beneath a thick diamond-and-gold wedding set, the skin was white, like a brand on her left ring finger. She was Nan Leland. For eighteen years, Hank and the boys had been the epicenter of her life. Wasn’t a wife and mother supposed to be the heart of the home? Now, however, the boys were poised for leaving and her husband seemed more and more distant. Her father was near death, her mother was alone in that empty house… She took a ragged breath, then a thought brought a half smile.

But Morgan was home.

Her mind turned to the long, welcoming avenue of oaks at Sweetgrass. While the boys laughed between themselves, Nan was listening to the voice of the little girl still alive within her, fiercely whispering, “I’m a Blakely, too.”

Across the churning, gray-green Ashley River in Charleston, Morgan was clenching his fists at his thighs, a nervous reaction to the strident ding of the hospital elevator. Seconds later, the metal doors swished open and he faced the mint-green walls of the medical center’s third floor. He sucked in his breath and drew inward as he followed the yellow arrow painted onto the polished floors that would lead him to the stroke rehabilitation center. As he walked, an elderly, pasty-faced inpatient clothed in the flimsy, dignity-depriving hospital gown limped past him with great effort, clutching a stainless-steel walker and supported on either side by some family member offering encouraging comments.

The nurse at the station looked up in a guarded greeting.

“I’m looking for Preston Blakely’s room. I’m his son,” he added. “Morgan Blakely.”

“Your father is in room 321,” she said after a quick check. Her voice seemed too loud for the hushed floor. “He’s finished his therapy session and is resting.”

“Will I disturb him?”

“Oh, no. He’ll enjoy the company, though he might not show it.” Her rigid face shifted suddenly to reveal concern. “This is your first visit, isn’t it?” When he nodded she leaned forward and said kindly, “You do know that he can’t speak? Or move much?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking. Didn’t want you to be shocked. It’s never easy to see a loved one the first time in that condition.” Her eyes remained dubious but she waved him on. “You let me know if you need my help for anything.”

He clenched his fists again and swallowed hard. His feet moved as though on automatic pilot as he scanned the faux-wood doors for 321. When he found it, he paused outside the silent, dimly lit room.

Morgan rarely saw his father in bed. Preston Blakely was a man who prided himself on rising before the sun, the kind of man who liked to get a head start on his day. Morgan perceived his father as someone vertical, standing erect, upright and plumb. So to see him lying prone on the thin, hard, unforgiving surface of a hospital bed was unnatural, like coming across a buffalo down in the prairie. The first time he’d witnessed that lifeless mountain of a beast, it had sent a numbing chill straight to his core. He felt the same helplessness now, unsure of what to expect or of what to do next.

It wasn’t courage that compelled him to take the step into the dim, sterile room. Nor was it a son’s sense of duty. Compassion brought him to his father’s side. A thin blue cotton blanket covered his father, giving him a mummy-like appearance as he lay flat, toes pointed, one arm curled oddly against his chest, the other lying still by his side.

Preston seemed small. His usually tanned and ruddy complexion had turned pasty white, and skin sagged from his prominent cheekbones like putty. His mouth, which could deliver orders and a good story with equal authority, now hung slack and drooped to one side. It frightened Morgan to the core to see him this way. He was acutely aware that he was on his feet and his father was not.

Morgan pulled a chair closer to the bed and slumped into it. He folded his hands across his belly and sat quietly staring at his father while, inwardly, memories raged with an old, seething anger. After what seemed a long time, he checked his watch, then groaned, knowing he’d be here for hours more. Already he felt depleted. He got up to walk around the room, checking out the flower arrangements, recognizing the names of old family friends on the cards.

There was a chart posted on the door, a simple hand-drawn box with lines marking date and time of day. It was colored in red, blue and yellow, and he knew for certain that it was made by his mother, who had always made lists of the children’s chores with little stars pasted on them. On the chart were the signatures of those who had volunteered to sit with Preston. The same few names appeared over and over, and as the days turned to weeks, even those names appeared less frequently. In the past few days, most of the slots were blank save for his mother’s name.

Morgan was sorry to see how few times his sister’s and nephews’ names were listed. Today, his own name stood alone in his scrawling script. Writing it, he’d vowed it would appear on the chart every day until his father was released.

When he turned toward his father, he jerked back, stunned. His father’s eyes were open in the cadaverous face, staring at him. Morgan’s heart pounded as he looked into the vivid blue eyes so much like his own. The eyes that stared back at him widened, and Morgan could have sworn his father acknowledged him.

Morgan licked his lips, parched with nervousness. He moved the chair closer, the wood scraping loudly on the floor, and sat down. Yet there wasn’t any reaction, not even a twitch, from his father. His stillness was eerie. Morgan thought of all the times in the past when his father had roared at him to do this or that, or berated him for what he’d done wrong. All those times, Morgan had wished his dad would just shut the hell up. But this mute, sad-eyed, terrified silence was far worse.

Morgan reached out and hesitatingly placed his hand over his father’s. Touching his father like this was strange, even unprecedented. The bones of his large hand felt fragile and his skin felt dry and cool. Morgan leaned forward and in a hoarse voice choked with repressed emotion spoke his first words to his father in more than a decade.

“I’m here now, Daddy. You’re not alone.”

Later that evening, Morgan walked under the canopy of the avenue of oaks with a bottle of Jim Beam and Blackjack for company. The dog, delighted with the attention after weeks of neglect, shuffled at his side. The old dog’s gait was stiff and labored, and his heavy paws dragged the dirt in the soft roadbed. Overhead, gnarled gray branches soared high into the sky to intertwine and form an arch that rivaled the flying buttresses of a European cathedral.

It was his father who had made that comparison, Morgan remembered. Preston used to walk this path daily, often with his head bent as though in prayer. Morgan flashed back to a time he and his older brother, Hamlin, were walking along the avenue with him. Preston had been in a rare mood of introspection and told his sons in a solemn voice that he felt closer to his Creator walking in this church of God’s making than he ever did in one of man’s.

His mother, in contrast, prayed in church. The Blakelys were long-standing, staunch members of the Christ Church Episcopal Parish, and his mother was no exception. When he was little, his mother used to settle him on her lap during service by whispering the names of all the Episcopal ministers that graced the family tree. Or she’d tell of how she, along with generations of Blakely women before her, had stitched the fine needlework that graced the altar. He remembered how he’d slowly relax in her arms, surrounded in her scent of gardenias, a fine sheen of sweat from the stifling heat across his brow, while the murmurs of the faithful droned on.

Morgan felt a sudden longing for the years lost. Each great oak that he passed seemed to him as one of his ancestors, erect and silent, watching with judgment as this last remaining Blakely heir slunk along the worn path, his pockets empty and his dreams unrealized.

Unworthy, he heard in the rustle of leaves.

“You’re all dead!” he shouted, then swallowed hard, struck fresh with guilt at the sudden memory of his brother.

Morgan brought the bottle to his lips and drank thirstily. Why was he dredging up things he hadn’t thought about in years? Families had a way of tossing one straight back to the nursery. He didn’t have any intention of playing the role of angry young rebel again. He liked to think he’d traveled beyond that point in his life, at least.

Straight ahead, soft yellow light flowed from the mullioned windows of his family’s house. When he reached the porch stairs, Blackjack paused, tail wagging, and looked up expectantly.

“You’re like a ronin, aren’t you, boy? Just an old, master-less hound, like me,” he said, reaching over to pat the velvety fur. “No point in pretending any longer that you’re staying in your den, huh? Mama June’s wise to your tricks. Tell you what. She ain’t going to chase you off the porch. Nope. Truth is, no one has the heart. So, come on, then.” He grandly waved the dog up toward the house, tottering with the effort.

Blackjack’s tail wagged and he bounded forward. Morgan took the stairs more slowly. Once on the porch, Blackjack brought his muzzle to Morgan’s hand, demanding. Morgan patted his broad head. Comforted by the motion, Morgan obliged until Blackjack was at last satisfied and ambled at a soft, padded pace to the cushioned settee he’d claimed as his own. After climbing up, the old dog settled with a low grunt, worn out from the long walk.

Morgan eyed the curled-up dog and wished he could settle in as easily for the night. His joints were stiff from sitting all day in the hard hospital chair and, rolling his shoulders, he knew he’d ache tonight. Despite his fatigue and the bourbon running through his veins, however, his mind was still churning. He felt restless and wasn’t ready to go in just yet, so he took a final swig from the bottle, leaned against one of the eight porch pillars and lit a cigarette.

What the hell was he doing here? he asked himself. He’d been away from Sweetgrass for more than a decade, yet even in the darkness he knew the land as well as the lines of his own body. Looking out, he could readily mark the Blakely borders along the shadowy, ragged outline of the marsh. It extended far out to where the cordgrass met sea and sky to form the horizon. The landscape seemed unchanged in all the years he’d been gone—at least within the gates of Sweetgrass.

He’d half expected his parents to remain the same, too. Yet, today he’d seen for himself the ravages that time wrought on the people he loved and had left behind.

He ran his hand in a sulky sweep through his hair. Time had not been kind to him, either. The years of wandering had not brought him the answers he’d hoped they would. The answers he sought were not on the open road, nor in the mountains of Montana. This he’d learned today while sitting at his father’s side. As he searched those eyes that stared back at him with the intensity of an acetylene torch, the excuses had burned clean away and he’d realized that the answers he sought were here, at Sweetgrass, with his father.

“Aw, hell,” he muttered, pulling a long drag from his cigarette and tossing the bottle into the darkness. It fell with a satisfying crash.

Behind him, the front door creaked open.

“Morgan? There you are! I thought I heard a noise.” Mama June closed the door behind her and joined him on the porch.

“Just havin’ a smoke.”

“Thank you for smoking on the porch.” Mama June pulled her sweater a little tighter around her neck and came closer.

He glanced to his side. His mother seemed small and slight beside him, more girl-like than he’d remembered. “Kind of chilly tonight.”

“But it’s so bright and clear. Look! Venus is flirting with the Carolina moon.”

The moon was an upturned sliver of light cut in a swath of black velvet. Venus, piercingly bright, punctuated the curve like a beauty mark at the tip of a courtesan’s smile.

“How is he today?” she asked. “It’s the first day I haven’t been in to see him.”

“I expect he’s much the same as when you last saw him.” He flicked the ash and took another drag on his cigarette. “But he’s sure as hell not at all the same as when I last saw him.”

Her gaze searched his unkempt appearance with concern and he knew that she caught the scent of bourbon that clung to him.

“I was anxious about how you’d react,” she replied at length. “Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“I see,” she said.

And he knew that she did.

“It was damn hard seeing him like that.”

“I tried to prepare you.”

“How do you prepare someone for something like that?”

She sighed. “I suppose that’s why Nan and the boys have such a hard time visiting.”

Morgan swallowed his retort with the smoke, feeling the burn. He dropped the cigarette and ground it with his heel. “Have you given any thought to what we talked about this morning?”

Her face grew troubled. Turning, she gripped the porch railing. “I’ve thought of little else.”

“Have you reached any conclusions?”

She looked out into the darkness for a moment. When she turned back, curiosity shone in her eyes. “Tell me, Morgan, you’ve looked into his eyes today. What did you see?”

He exhaled slowly. “I never thought I’d see fear in Daddy’s eyes. But I saw it today.”

“I’ve seen it, too!” she exclaimed, seizing the moment. “Every day. He’s trapped in there. He can’t even tell us what he wants.” She took a breath. “But I know what he wants. His eyes are speaking to me. They’re screaming bring me home!”

“Then that’s what you should do.”

Her expression shifted from elation to worry. “I wish it were so easy. It’s rife with problems. I know that bringing Preston home to Sweetgrass doesn’t make a whit of sense in dollars and cents. But his recovery isn’t just about money, is it?” she asked. “His recovery also depends on his spirit and his will. And I assure you, Preston’s will and spirit are intricately connected with Sweetgrass.” She looked up at him, her eyes entreating. “But I can’t do it alone.”

He knew where she was heading and placed his hands on the railing, leaning heavily. “Mama June…”

“Wait.” She drew back her shoulders. “All right, I’m ready. Ask me your question. One more time.”

A wry smile played at his lips upon seeing her rail-straight posture. He delivered his line sincerely. “Mama June, what do you want to do?”

She lifted her chin. “I want to bring Preston home to Sweetgrass. I want to care for him here, in his home, for as long as it takes him to get his voice back and let me know what he wants to do next.” She paused to take a breath. “And, I want you to stay.”

He barked out a laugh. “Well, ma’am, when you finally get around to answering a question, you sure deliver a mouthful.”

“You did ask.”

His jaw tightened, holding back the reply on his tongue. He’d been considering the option all day, wrestling with it with every bit as much desperation as Jacob with the Angel. He didn’t want to stay. Every instinct told him to get in his truck and hightail it back to the quiet isolation of Montana. Then he looked at his mother, waiting expectantly, and his decision tumbled into place.

“All right, then, angel,” he said with resignation. “It looks like you’ve won this one. I’ll stay.”

“Thank you, Morgan!”

He leaned back against the pillar. “Don’t thank me yet, Mama June. I don’t know how long we’re going to be able to hang on here. It won’t be easy. You may regret this.”

“Regret you coming home to help your father? Regret bringing Preston home to heal? Never!”

He chuckled at the passion of her statement. “All right then,” he said again. He ran both hands through his hair, scratching away the last of the bourbon from his head. “Now that that’s settled, I’m starving.” He patted his lean stomach. “Got anything to eat?”

Smiling at the age-old question, she stretched up to kiss his cheek. “Music to my ears. You go on and wash up and I’ll fix you something. I’ll be there directly.”

She watched him go inside, heard the soft clap of the screen door close behind him. Alone, she turned toward the vast darkness beyond, then looked to the heavens. The stars sparkled with a brilliance nearly as bright as the hope shining in her eyes.

Later that night a storm barreled through the Lowcountry, bringing with it crackling lightning and rumbling thunder that shook the rafters. Mama June roused from her sleep, blinking her eyes slowly as she grew accustomed to the deep darkness. She could see nothing save for the intermittent flashes of light from the storm. She wasn’t afraid. Ever since coming to live at Sweetgrass she’d thrilled to the fast-moving storms that swept from the mainland toward the ocean.

Restless, she turned over to her back and, placing her hands on her chest, played the game of counting the seconds between lightning and thunder. Rain tapped against the windows and the roof as she reviewed her decision to bring Preston home.

The tapping grew louder, interrupting her thoughts. Mama June glanced over to the window. Her breath hitched in her throat as she caught sight of a misty white mass hovering near the window. Squinting, she thought she saw a figure in the mist. The outline of a woman’s form in a nightcap and a long period dress appeared, looking directly at her. Mama June felt the hairs on her body rise.

Then lightning flashed again, bold and bright, and thunder clapped so near and loud that Mama June clutched her gown and nearly jumped from her skin. When she looked again, the apparition was gone.

Mama June sat up in her bed and, with a trembling hand, flicked on the bedside lamp. Instantly, a soothing light filled the room, reassuring her that she was indeed alone. Only the curtains flapped at the window. She brought her hand to her heart, and as her breathing came back to normal, she tried to dredge up the memory of what she’d just seen. It had happened so quickly, she couldn’t be sure if what she’d seen was real or a dream. Perhaps it was merely the strange light patterns from the lightning against the curtains.

“You old fool,” she muttered to herself, lowering back into bed and turning off the bedside lamp. “You’re just imagining things.”

The storm quickly passed out to sea and only a gentle rain pattered on the rooftop. Mama June felt a heavy weariness droop her eyelids and weigh down her bones. She lay her head down on the pillow and brought her blanket close under her chin, telling herself for the thousandth time that her imagination had got the best of her on this emotional day.

And yet…a persistent voice in her mind told her that she’d not been imagining anything at all. She knew what she’d seen in the floating mist—or rather, who.

It was the ghost of the family’s first matriarch, Beatrice. And she’d been smiling.

4

The art of basket making was brought to South Carolina by slaves who came from West Africa more than three hundred years ago. “For generations, the art has been passed from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”

—Vera M. Manigault, basket maker

MAMA JUNE’S HANDS TIGHTENED on the steering wheel of her ’95 Oldsmobile sedan as she leaned forward and squinted, focusing on the steady flow of traffic that whizzed past. Her heart beat like a wild bird in her chest.

The private road to Sweetgrass was accessed directly from Highway 17. In colonial days when Sweetgrass was a plantation, the roadbed was called Kings Highway and was a major artery for planters. In the twentieth century, it grew to become a sleepy highway for people traveling between Charleston and Myrtle Beach. As construction of housing developments, shopping malls and tourism burgeoned, however, the traffic roared by.

Mama June didn’t care much for driving in the first place, and it was no time for daydreaming if she didn’t want to get clobbered just trying to get out of her own driveway.

There was a break in the traffic and Mama June eased her great rumbling sedan onto the highway, earning a nasty honk from a speeding car that careened over to the left. As the car passed, the driver gestured rudely, yelling. Mama June smiled sweetly and returned the wave.

Most likely a tourist, she thought, her smile falling hard. She was smugly gratified to see the out-of-town license plate as it sped past. Mama June smoothed her hair, feeling both indignant and embarrassed. No one local would be so rude as to honk like that, or yell such things, she thought. Especially not to an elderly woman.

“What’s becoming of this town?” she muttered as she gradually eased her Oldsmobile up to just below the speed limit. She didn’t want to go so fast that she’d miss the stand. It ought to be coming up right soon.

The rickety wood stands that bordered both sides of the four-lane highway had been there for as long as she could remember. Beginning in Mount Pleasant and progressing clear up to Georgetown, African-American women could be found sitting in the shade beside their basket stands. They’d sit weaving the indigenous sweetgrass into baskets, patiently waiting for some local or tourist to stop alongside the road and purchase one of their works of art.

In bad weather, the lean-to stands stood stark and empty. In good weather, however, soft yellow-and-brown baskets by the dozens dangled from the wooden slats, some with bright red ribbons affixed during the holidays, some with paper price tags dangling gaily in the wind. All kinds of baskets were available: some with handles, some with tops, some large and flat and others with curves and twists. Mama June slowed down, her eyes peeled for one basket stand in particular.

Mama June remembered the day, so long ago, that her mama drove this same road to Myrtle Beach. It was her eighth birthday and her mother was taking her on a special holiday—just the girls. There would be swimming on the long stretch of pearly beach, shopping and eating out at restaurants. Oftentimes, her parents went off to the Grand Strand, giggling like teenagers. So this time was very special. She’d packed her new yellow dress with the stiff pastel crinolines that made her feel like a princess and shiny patent leather shoes bought specially for the trip.

Her mother had to make a stop in Charleston, so afterward they drove north along Highway 17. It was the first time she’d seen the many rickety, wooden stands that lined the road. In her child’s mind, she’d thought they were ramshackle houses and had felt sorry for the poor people who lived in those lean-tos. How her mother had laughed at that one!

Her mother had pulled over the big red Buick alongside one of the stands, Mama June recalled as if it were yesterday. Being young, she was nervous about approaching the two African-American women who sat in a companionable manner, weaving. They were kindly and took the time to show her how they wove the narrow strips of palmetto leaf through the sweetgrass to create a basket.

Mary June was mesmerized. As she watched the women’s strong fingers twist the yellow, sweet-smelling grass into shape, her own fingers moved at her sides. Impulsively, she begged her mother for a basket, saying she’d rather have one than a trip to the Strand, a comment that made the weavers roll their eyes and chortle. Because it was her birthday, her mother let her choose any one she wanted. Mama June still had that basket in a place of honor on her dining room shelf. It was the first of many baskets she’d collected over the years.

Mama June smiled at the memory, then shook her head, focusing on the road. She didn’t have to drive far before she spotted a basket stand that had a large number of more intricately designed baskets than most of the other stands held. Mama June pulled over to the side of the road and cut the engine just as an eighteen-wheeler pushed past her, causing even her large Olds to rock.

“Heaven, help us,” she exclaimed, holding tight to the wheel. Coughing lightly from the dust, she peered over her shoulder before pushing open the car door and scurrying out from the sedan to safety. As she approached the stand, Mama June’s experienced eye recognized the evenness of the stitches, the uniform rows of sweetgrass and the clever, subtle shift of color from the golden sweetgrass to the coffee-colored bull rush. To her mind, this weaver was a master.

One woman in a dull brown skirt and blue patterned blouse sat in the shade of a sprawling live oak. The woman’s hands stilled and her face lifted in expectant welcome. She had short, steel-gray hair worn in tight curls around her head, a straight nose that flared wide, bold cheekbones and a jawline that could have been carved of granite. Her appearance was regal and might even have been regarded as rigid were it not for her eyes. They were wide, deep and full of expression, so that one would always know her opinion on a matter without her having to speak a single word.

“Nona!”

Nona’s eyes widened in recognition and she raised her palms up. “Lord have mercy! Mary June! I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks!”

“I know. And what a spell I’ve been having!” Mama June replied as she stepped forward to take the strong brown hands into her own. The two women looked into each other’s eyes as years of shared experiences flashed through both of their minds, tightening their clasped hands in unspoken acknowledgment.

“What brings you here today?” Nona asked, releasing her hold and folding her arms akimbo, eyes twinkling. Don’t tell me you’ve come looking for a basket?”

“One can never have too many sweetgrass baskets,” she replied, her gaze moving across the rows. “But actually,” she said, fixing her gaze on Nona, “I’ve got some rather bad news. Is this a good time?”

Concern crept into Nona’s eyes, though her smile remained fixed. “As good a time as any. I’m just sewing my baskets. I’d enjoy the company.”

“I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to the hospital. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Preston’s had a stroke.”

Nona brought a hand over her heart. “Goodness, no! I didn’t hear a word about that! Now, that’s a terrible sadness. How is he?”

“Very bad, I’m sorry to say. It left him paralyzed and he can’t speak a word.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“He’s as helpless as a baby. But he’s been in intensive therapy. We have hope.”

“You got to have hope.”

“I honestly believe that the only hope he has of ever walking or speaking again lies in our getting him out of the hospital and back home. You know how much he loves Sweetgrass. I believe bringing him home will be his best tonic.”

“He surely does love the place,” Nona replied, nodding with affirmation. “Even so, you are his best tonic, Mary June. Always have been.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But it is a big undertaking to bring him home.” Mama June gave a brief account of the army of therapists she’d scheduled to work with Preston at home and the kind of therapy each would provide.

Listening, Nona was all amazement. “And they do all that right there in your house?” When Mama June nodded, Nona shook her head. “It’s like bringing the hospital home with you! I expect that’ll cost you a bundle. All those professionals…”

“Insurance helps,” Mama June replied. “Still, it’s a worry. I’ve hired a live-in aide to see to Preston’s medical needs. But the house is another thing altogether.” She wrung her hands, unable to ask the question on the tip of her tongue, hoping Nona would read between the lines.

“What a time you’ve had.”

“Oh, Nona, there’s so much to be done. I expect to be busy as Preston’s caretaker, you see. I’m also taking care of the business of the farm as well.”

“You are?”

Nona’s shocked tone might have been insulting from anyone else, but she knew Mama June better than anyone—and was well acquainted with Mama June’s aversion to anything pertaining to money.

“Just until Preston is well.”

Nona’s brows rose. “That’s a lot to take on all of a sudden.”

“It surely is. Nona, I can tell you, I’ve been simply overwhelmed with all the decisions I have to make, and now with Preston due to come home…” She lifted her palms in a light shrug. “I probably should get some help.”

Nona looked away, lowering her hands and reaching out to straighten a few baskets in a line on the long table. “Might be a good idea,” she said in a slow voice. “Mary June, you might could get one of those cleaning crews. You know the ones I mean. A whole group of women come sweeping down on the house like locusts on a field and clean the house lickety-split.”

Mama June couldn’t speak for a moment. She felt a profound disappointment that Nona hadn’t come to her aid, as she’d always done in the past. What she really needed was someone she could depend on, someone to help manage the house. What she needed was a friend to help her out. But she couldn’t ask this without clouding the air between them.

“You’re probably right,” she replied, clutching her purse. “Well, I best be going. You take care.” She started to leave, then suddenly turned back. Nona hadn’t moved a muscle but stood, watching her. “I almost forgot. I wanted to buy a basket.”

“Now, Mary June, you don’t need to buy no basket.”

“But I want to. I see your style has changed a bit. Look at that one with the popcorn along the edges,” she said, pointing to a small capped basket. “That is a beauty. I’d like to have that one in my collection of your work or it wouldn’t be complete. How much is it?”

Nona lifted the intricate basket and slowly ran her fingers around its edges, considering. “This one didn’t take much time and there are some mistakes in it,” she replied. “Eighty dollars.”

Mama June took the basket in her hands and brought it close. “There’s not a mistake on this basket and you know it. And it took a considerable amount of time to make. It’s a bargain at a hundred.”

She reached into her pocketbook and tugged out two fifty-dollar bills. Each dollar was measured these days. She’d intended to go to the market on the way home, but this stop just cleaned out her wallet. She handed the bills to Nona.

“Thank you,” Nona said, pocketing the bills in her skirt without a glance.

“It was wonderful seeing you again. Morgan was asking after you.”

Nona’s brows rose high, creasing her broad forehead. “Morgan is back home?”

Mama June’s face eased into a grin. “Yes! At last! You could have knocked me over with a feather.” At the mention of Morgan, a child beloved by both women, the earlier tension fled as quickly as the traffic passing on the highway, and the words flowed more easily.

“What brought that rapscallion back home after all this time?”

“His father’s illness, of course.”

“Oh, Lord, of course. Well, he’s a fine boy to come to his father’s aid. I always said he was a fine boy.”

“Yes, you did. And he is. I just wish he knew that. I don’t know what I’d have done if he hadn’t returned when he did. I’ve been quite beside myself with worry. Not only about Preston but about what to do with Sweetgrass.”

“Come again? What do you mean about Sweetgrass?”

“There’s a lot to be decided, now that Preston’s taken sick. Adele has strong opinions on the matter, of course.”

Nona grunted, crossing her arms akimbo. “That woman only has one kind of opinion and that’s strong. What’s she got to say about this? It’s not her home no more.”

Mama June shrugged lightly. “It will always be her home, in some way. It’s where she grew up. It’s her heritage. She’d argue it’s more hers than mine. You know that better than anyone.”

Adele and Nona had been raised together at Sweetgrass, where Nona’s mother had been the housekeeper, as was her mother before her, and so on for generations. The two girls had always been oil and water, wise to each other’s tricks and wiles. Both Nona and Adele were formidable women, neither the least cowed by the other.

“I know that Adele sees Sweetgrass not so much as her home but as her property, if you catch my meaning.”

“That old chestnut…” Mama June shook her head. “Adele’s a wealthy woman in her own right. Why would she have any designs on poor ol’ Sweetgrass?”

Nona narrowed her eyes. “Money’s only money. What Adele wants is something else besides that.”

“She doesn’t want Sweetgrass at all. In fact, she wants me to sell it.”

“Sell it!” Nona’s hand flew back to her chest. “You can’t be meaning to up and sell Sweetgrass? Why, it’s family land.”

“I know!” Mama June echoed with feeling. “That’s why I’m bringing Preston home. He’s the one who ought to be making this decision. He’s the one who took care of the land, not me.”

Nona’s brown eyes fixed upon her as she mulled this over. “That may be so,” she said at length. “But seems to me, if Mr. Preston can’t talk, then like it or no, it’s going to be you making the decision.”

A wave of anxiety washed through her, and Mama June could taste the salty rush in her throat as she choked back words. She clutched her pocketbook tighter to her chest.

As if she understood what she was feeling, Nona stepped forward and gently placed one of her strong hands on Mama June’s shoulder. “We’ll pray on it,” she said. “God will not push you harder than you can bear. Jesus takes up for you when you need Him.”

She knew Nona was trying to be supportive, but the weight of her dilemma weighed heavily on her shoulder.

“I best be off. I have more stops to make today than hours to make them. But I thank you for your prayers. I’ll need them.”

Sell Sweetgrass?

So many memories came flooding back to Nona at the mention of Sweetgrass. Lots of them good memories, some of them not so good, all of them springing from her life spent there. But good or bad, they made up a lot of years and she had to acknowledge them all, for pieced together, they made up the quilt of her life.

When she returned home a short while later, she found her daughter, Maize, already at the house to pick up the children. Nona knew better than to mention Mary June’s visit, but she couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t keep the words in, having to tell someone. Now she’d have to suffer the consequences.

“You can tell her we don’t work for her family anymore.” Maize’s face was flushed and she stood ramrod straight, her hands firmly planted on her slim hips.

Nona let out a long, ragged sigh. “She didn’t ask me to come back to work.”

“Good!”

Maize was just like a bantam rooster, pacing on the balls of her feet, shaking her head, eager for a fight. Anything at all to do with Sweetgrass or the Blakelys or her mother doing housework usually sent Maize off on a tirade that was more about Maize’s raw feelings about race relations than anything else. Nona knew her daughter wrestled with the devil on these issues—always had. Edwin and Earl, her boys, had the same fire in their bellies, but they just up and left to join their uncles in the north. Maize was her baby, however, and the cord was strong between them. Maize had married a local boy, a teacher at a local high school, and settled here in Charleston, giving Nona two of the prettiest grandbabies she ever could have wanted. They were happy, but there’d been sharp, painful words about Sweetgrass between them.

Though she would never admit this to Maize, since it would be like pouring kerosene on an open fire, Nona had felt a stiffening of the spine when Mary June hinted at her coming back to work. She didn’t know why, exactly. She was fond of Mary June, and working at Sweetgrass was just the way things had always been for her. She’d grown up into the job and was proud of the quality of her work.

Nona recollected how Preston’s mother, old Margaret Blakely, could make a statement sound cool and polite, but it was always understood that she was giving an order. Nona, the shutters in the front room need dusting today. It wasn’t the order that rankled. After all, Mrs. Blakely was her employer. It was the way she said it, without a smile or without even looking her in the eye that had made Nona feel less about her work. Adele had been like her mother, even as a young girl.

Mary June Clark, though, was different. She was born to land, too, but never took on the airs. Courtesy for her was the same as kindness. She’d always asked Nona’s opinions about what did and did not need doing, and she listened. The respect made the difference between them.

“You calm yourself down,” Nona said to her daughter. “Mary June just found herself in a bind, is all. It’s a shame about Preston Blakely. That poor family! Haven’t they seen enough trouble? I don’t know what they’ll do now.”

“It’s no trouble for us.”

Nona drew herself back. “Why, the Blakelys have been my friends for as long as I’ve been alive.”

“You’re not their friend, Mama,” Maize said, giving her the narrowed eye. “You’ve got to get that into your head.”

“Every Christmas, don’t they send us a side of pork or beef from their livestock? And don’t we have leave to take whatever we want from their land? Your daddy likes to hunt and gather wood, sure, but you tell me where I’d be without collecting the sweetgrass from my sacred spot. And whenever any one of us took sick, it was Mary June who came calling with food. If that’s not a friend, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s what they do. It’s called noblesse oblige, Mama, not friendship. Rich white folks aren’t friends with poor black folks like us.”

“What do you know about any of that?” Nona asked, feeling her cheeks burn at being scolded by her own daughter. “You never worked in that house alongside them, you don’t know about my relationship with Mary June. Or with Preston Blakely, either. Lots of things happen over seventy years, I can tell you.”

“Answer me this. When was the last time she stopped by your basket stand to ask you to dinner? Or even out to a movie? That’s what you do with a friend, Mama. Not ask them to come back to work for you.”

Nona knew the difference between that kind of friendship and the friendship she shared with Mary June. “There are different kinds of friends at different levels. Don’t I hear you calling those people you work with at that bank your friends? My friend this. My friend that. Yet, I never saw you go out to a movie with them, neither.”

Maize’s face pinched but she looked away.

“You think you know everything just because you got that college degree. Well, there’s a lot to know about people and life that you can’t learn in books.”

“It’s not just about the college degree, Mama. It’s about getting educated, pursuing a career, competing in today’s world. It’s about being a player. That’s the reality I want for my children. Not cleaning up some white folks’ house, doing what they say, what they want, when they want it. This family’s been in bondage long enough!”

Nona drew herself up to her full height, one hand steadying herself on the counter, the other clenching her hip. She glared at Maize, this child of her own womb who she loved with a mother’s fierce pride, yet her eyes were dark with rage and she could feel herself trembling with the hurt and fury she was struggling to keep compressed inside.

“Just who do you think you’re calling a slave, child?” Nona’s voice was low and trembled with emotion. Maize’s self-righteous expression faltered. From across the room, Nona’s two grandchildren had stopped watching the television and were watching them with ashen faces and wide eyes. Nona’s lip trembled at the shame of it, but she fought for control. When she could speak again, she said, “I’m sorry that you’re so ashamed of your mother.”

“Mama…”

She pushed Maize’s arm away, sparing her dignity. “I’m proud of my work. It was good and honest and I was skilled at it. And it was my work that put you through your fancy schooling, young lady. Gracie!” she called out, turning to her granddaughter. The nine-year-old girl startled. “Go get me the family Bible.”

Grace scrambled to her feet and retrieved a large, faded and worn black leather-bound Bible that rested in a place of honor on the bookshelf. She carried it to her grandmother with both hands as though she were in a church procession.

“Thank you, child. You’re a good girl. Now, take a seat here at the table. You, too, Kwame,” she called to her thirteen-year-old grandson. He groaned softly, dragging his feet to the table. “You’re becoming a man and need to hear this most. This is your heritage.”

“Mama, not again,” said Maize, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter in passive protest. “They’ve heard this story a hundred times or more.”

“And they’re going to hear it one more time. These children can’t hear it enough. And to my mind, you still haven’t got the message in your head. Time was, the only way a family could pass on records was through the telling of them. But our family is one of the lucky ones. We’ve got the names written down. Right in here,” she said reverently, passing her strong hand over the fragile, crackled leather.

“I might not recollect all the names,” Nona continued, “but seven generations of our ancestors labored at Sweetgrass, and not all of them as slaves. After emancipation, we were free to choose to leave or stay. Most left. But your great-something-grandmother chose to stay on as hired labor. They worked hard and saved smart and bought themselves a good piece of land from the Blakelys for fifty cents an acre. That’s the land that we, and the other heirs, are living on even to this day. This land is where our roots are. This is our history.” Her voice trembled with emotion.

Nona felt her family’s ancestors gathering close about her as she grew old, closer now even than some of the living. Sometimes at night, especially when the moon was soft, the air close and a mist rolled in from the sea, she couldn’t sleep for feeling them floating around her, comforting her, calling to her from across the divide.

She slowly sat in the kitchen chair and set the Bible on the wood table. The chair’s worn blue floral cushion did little to ease her pains, but she gave them no mind as she opened up the Bible to reveal yellowed sheets of paper as thin as a moth’s wing. Each page was crowded with faded black ink in an elaborate script. She was proud of the fine handwriting of her kin. She often marveled at their courage to practice the skill, given the life-and-death orders against slaves reading and writing.

“Most of what I know about our distant kin was passed on orally in stories. I recollect just bits, mostly about a slave named Mathilde who came from Africa. And Ben, who escaped north never to be heard from again. You remember those stories?”

When the children nodded, she rewarded them with an approving smile. Maize hovered closer, joining the circle.

“Now, my great-grandmother was Delilah. That’s her name right there. She was the last of our family enslaved at Sweetgrass, and it was Delilah who first began to write down our family history. She was the head housekeeper at Sweetgrass and a fine, intelligent woman. Taught herself how to read and write from the children’s schoolbooks. Had to sneak them, of course, at great peril. It was only after the War Act that she felt safe to write openly. Must’ve been a fine day when Delilah wrote her first entry in this Bible. Look close!”

The children leaned forward to read the elaborate loops and the even shapes of Delilah’s first entry on February 26, 1865. Freedom Come! The second entry was her marriage to John Foreman, and the third, the birth of her first child, a daughter named Delia.

“Her child—my grandmother—was the first freeborn in our line. After emancipation come, Delilah stayed on at Sweetgrass, working as a free woman, living in the kitchen house next to the main house with her husband and children until it fell to her daughter, Delia—your great-great-grandmother—to note the date of her mother’s death in this Bible. They buried Delilah in the graveyard on Sweetgrass where many of our kin were laid to rest.

“Now, Delia had a daughter named Florence. When she married, she didn’t want to live in that kitchen house no more, so she moved here on Six Mile Road and built the house across the street. But she continued working for the Blakely family. Before long, she wrote in the Bible the name of her firstborn.”

“Nona,” read Gracie. “That’s you.”

“That’s me. And I’m the last in our line to work for the Blakely family.”

“There’s my mama’s name,” Gracie said in rote, pointing to Maize’s name. “And mine and Kwame’s.” It was a ritual, this pointing out of their names in the family Bible.

“You see the names, Kwame?”

“Yes’m.”

Nona nodded her gray head. “Good.” She firmly believed that with each recognition of their name in a long line of family, the roots of these young sprouts grew strong and fixed.

“Our family’s been born and buried on Sweetgrass land near as long as the Blakelys have. This land is our history, too. And the sweetgrass that grows here is as dear to me as it was to my mother and her mother before her. Maybe more so, as the grass is fast disappearing from these parts. Our family’s been pulling grass on this land since time was. Making sweetgrass baskets is part of our culture. I don’t want my grandchildren to forget their heritage. That’s why I’m teaching you how to make the baskets. It’s part of who we come from. Even if your mama don’t care to.”

“Yes’m,” the children replied, sitting straight in their chair.

Her face softened at the sight of them, her grandbabies. These were the beacons she was lighting to carry on into the future. And didn’t they shine bright?

She reached out to place her wrinkled hands upon their heads, then gently offered them a pat. “Go on, now. It’s time for you to get home and finish your homework. Kwame, don’t forget to fix the spelling on that paper.”

After kisses and quick orders, Maize gathered her children and sent them ahead to the car. She paused at the door, her smooth face creased with trouble.

Nona sat in her chair, waiting.

“Mama,” Maize said at length, raising her eyes to meet Nona’s steady gaze. “You’re the strongest woman I know. You hold this family together, and I know I wouldn’t be the woman I am without you. I don’t mean to be so harsh about the Blakelys and Sweetgrass. I’m all churning inside with my feelings about them. You seem to have it all so settled in your mind. I envy that. I wish I could be so at peace with it. But I love you. And I’m proud of you.” She laughed shortly and wiped away a tear. “And you’re right. What do I know about you and Mrs. Mary June? Maybe she is your friend. Lord knows I have few enough of them myself.”

Nona opened up her arms.

Maize hurried to her mother’s side and hugged her, placing a kiss on her cheek.

Nona squeezed her youngest child close to her breast, relishing the smoothness of her cheek against her own. When Maize let her guard down and hugged her like this, all time vanished and it felt to Nona like her daughter was a small child again, seeking comfort in her mama’s arms.

After they left, Nona remained sitting in the hardback chair, her hand resting on the treasured family Bible for a long while. She had to make sense out of her rambling feelings.

In retrospect, Maize wasn’t totally wrong when she said the Blakelys weren’t friends. Maybe friendship wasn’t the right word for what she shared with Mary June Blakely. Maybe bond better described their relationship. Working in someone’s home was more personal than working in an office. Maize couldn’t understand that. She hadn’t lived in that house all those years, hadn’t shared the private moments or the secrets. Or the tragedies. Truth was, Nona couldn’t explain to her daughter the complex feelings she harbored about the Blakelys. She couldn’t explain them even to herself. She doubted Mary June could, either.

Nona placed her palms on the table and dragged herself to a stand. Lord, what a day, she thought, rubbing her back, feeling the ache travel straight down her legs. She carried the large book back to its resting place on the bookshelf. It wouldn’t be too long before Maize would make the final notation about her mother in the Bible, she thought. Nona wasn’t afraid of what was coming—no, she was not. She’d walked a straight path in her life, even if it seemed a bit narrow at times, and she would walk a straight path to the Lord when He called her home.

She gingerly nestled the fragile leather Bible between two sweetgrass baskets. One had been woven by her mother, Florence, and the other by her grandmother, Delia. She gently traced her fingers along the intricate stitches of the palmetto fronds that held together many strands of soft yellow sweetgrass. The baskets were old and dry, cracking at places, but the stitches held tight.

This treasured Bible and these precious woven baskets helped make her thoughts more clear. Looking at them, Nona realized that the histories of the Blakelys and the Bennetts were woven together just as tightly as the sweetgrass in these baskets. Like it or not, history could not be changed. It was what it was. Strong ties, the ones that are ironclad and bind souls, are forged in shared history, she thought. This was a bond, not bondage.

Nona readjusted the baskets on the shelf. Then she walked to a large cardboard box in the corner of the room, beside the sofa. In this box she stored the baskets she’d made to sell at her stand. Sorting through, she chose one she was particularly proud of. It was a deceptively simple design with the twisting handle she did so well. She held it up to the light, proud that the stitches were so tight, not a pinprick of light shone through. This basket would hold for generations to come.

Nona placed this basket on the kitchen table, then began to pull out flour, tins and her mixing bowls from the cabinets. All her earlier fatigue had vanished in the fervor of her new mission. She was clearheaded now and knew what she had to do.

5

The basket making tradition is a family affair. It was the custom for men and boys to gather the materials while women and girls sewed the baskets. Though this tradition continues, nowadays all members of the family gather materials and make the baskets.

SUNDAY DINNER HAD LONG been a tradition for the Blakely family, as it was for many Southern families. Nan recalled Sunday dinner beginning in the early afternoon, soon after their return from church. Nona used to cover the dining room’s long mahogany table with the old damask tablecloth while Mama June set flowers from her garden in sparkling crystal vases. The Blakely silver would be set, polished to a burnished gleam, as well as the graceful candelabra that had come from the Clarks and had been promised to Nan.

She had taken for granted those days when the table was overflowing with uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. On those occasions when the extended family came, the children were sent, grumbling, to the kiddie table in the kitchen. But when it was just the immediate family, the children always sat at the dining room table and were expected to be on their best behavior. On Monday night, they ate on everyday china. On Tuesday night, Hamlin might slouch in his chair. On Wednesday, Morgan might rest an elbow on the table. On Thursday, Daddy might remain silent, engrossed in his thoughts. On Friday, Nan might stir her peas on her plate or laugh with her mouth full at something Hamlin said. On these nights, Mama June looked the other way.

But on Sunday in the dining room, Mama June’s eyes were sharp and everyone was on their best behavior. Linen napkins were on the laps, no one left the table without being excused, Daddy was attentive to conversation, and each child was expected to know which fork to use.

The Sunday dinner tradition had fallen to the wayside after Hamlin’s death, when Mama June couldn’t summon the effort. It wasn’t decided upon; the tradition just silently slipped away.

To Nan’s mind, the end of Sunday dinners marked a sad turning point in the family’s history. The sense of collective purpose, the ready conversation, dissipated as silent months turned into years. In time, Nan married and left home, followed by Morgan’s angry departure to points west. Yet, even now, when she thought of her family, Nan thought of those precious years of joy when the family was strong and united together for Sunday dinner.

They arrived at Sweetgrass a little late. Chas and Harry had dragged their heels in a teenage sulk at having to get dressed up and spend a perfectly good day inside, bored to death. Hank seemed eager that they all attend the family dinner and had nagged at the boys to hurry. Nan looked into the rearview mirror. The boys sat sullen and resigned in the leather back seat of the sedan.

“Adele’s already here,” Hank said tersely as they pulled up to the house. Hank worked closely with Adele on development deals, thus Adele was not only a relative, but an employer.

Nan chewed her lip and checked her watch. “We’re only a half hour late. I doubt we’ve even been missed. Boys,” she called as her sons launched from the car. “Be on your best manners.”

They climbed the stairs to the front veranda where Mama June’s planters were filled with cheery yellow-and-purple pansies and all the brass was polished. Nan stood at the front door in her peach linen dress flanked by the tall, handsome men in her life. Beside her, Hank straightened his tie before ringing the bell. Nan picked a bit of lint from his shoulder and, alert to his tension, wondered why he seemed nervous about this gathering. Had he really been made to feel so much an outsider over the years? she wondered. She moved her hand to his arm and squeezed it reassuringly. He turned his head and looked at her with a quizzical expression.

The door swung wide. To her surprise, it was Aunt Adele who welcomed them in a sensational blouse of creamy raw silk, looking every bit the lady of the house.

“Here you are!” she exclaimed, her dark eyes brightening.

Preston’s sister was a tall, proud woman, as fierce a competitor in golf and tennis as in the real estate development business she’d built. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly trimmed away from her face, accentuating her trim, athletic good looks.

Nan began her litany of excuses, but Adele blithely waved them aside.

“Oh, none of that matters. Come in, come in! And you two,” she said, opening her arms to the boys. “Where have you been hiding? Come here this minute and give me a proper hug.”

Shuffling their feet, they obliged, but Nan didn’t miss the real affection between them. Adele was the godmother for both of her children. Never having married or had any children of her own, Adele doted on the boys and spoiled them with gifts. Mama June felt a little jealous that the boys spent more time at Adele’s spacious home on Sullivan’s Island, with her boats and pool and fridge filled with snacks, than at Sweetgrass. Adele was a wealthy woman who always had a spare dollar or three to hand out, while Mama June and Preston always had to pinch pennies.

Adele stood back to look at the boys. “My, my, don’t you look handsome.”

Chas rubbed his finger between his collar and neck. “Mama made us dress up.”

“Dress up? Honey, in my day, you boys would be in a jacket and tie. Without air-conditioning, mind you. So count your blessings.” She turned to Harry. “I thought you’d be out on the golf course this afternoon.”

He grimaced. “I should be. I’m playing in a tournament next week.”

“Your daddy told me. Say, I saw a new titanium putter at the club that’s as light as a feather and sure to help your game.”

“Yeah?” Harry exclaimed. “But I’ll bet it costs an arm and a leg.”

“Maybe not all that much.” She winked. “Be good today and we’ll talk.”

“Now, Aunt Adele…” Nan interjected, not wanting the boys to always feel they needed a reward for good behavior.

“We’d better join the others before they wonder where we are,” Adele interrupted, expertly steering the family into the living room.

The moment they stepped in, the room exploded with hoots and hollers. Morgan rushed out of his chair and wrapped Nan in a bear hug. The affection and banter flowed freely between brother and sister, spreading throughout the room.

Mama June wrapped her arms around herself, hearing the merriment as a string of firecrackers celebrating the family’s reunion. Hank smoothly stepped forward to act as bartender, serving the ladies mimosas.

“Morgan, what’s your poison?”

“Bourbon on the rocks, thanks.”

“A man after my own heart.”

“That sounds good to me, too, Dad,” Harry called out.

“There’re Cokes in the fridge,” Mama June replied. “Help yourself. But first, come say hello to your uncle.”

“I doubt they much remember you, Morgan,” Adele said.

Mama June thought the comment unkind, but Morgan sauntered over, extending his hand with a lopsided grin.

“I’ll bet you haven’t forgotten that boar hunt, huh?” he asked.

Harry, who adored hunting, shook his head and readily took Morgan’s hand. “No, sir!”

“What boar hunt?” Chas immediately wanted to know.

Harry launched into the tale, eliciting guffaws from Hank and Morgan. Mama June listened, attuned to the gift of storytelling that her grandson had inherited from his grandfather Blakely, along with Preston’s throaty laugh. Seeing the genetic imprint carry on from generation to generation was, for her, a blessing of growing older. Her attention was distracted, however, by Adele. She meandered about the room perusing the colonial-era furniture with a proprietary air. She stopped before an empire bookcase that held several pieces of family silver.

“Well, I’ll be….” She reached into the cabinet and lifted out a small engraved silver cup. “You found my porridge cup!”

Mama June came directly to her side. “Yes! After all these years we found it when we moved furniture in the dining room. It was wedged between the breakfront and the wall. Don’t ask me how it got there.”

“It was probably Press or Tripp that hid it there, just to rile me.” Adele tenderly turned the burnished silver cup in her hands. “I never thought I’d see this again.”

“Why don’t you keep it? Take it home with you,” Mama June offered.

Adele’s gaze shot up. “How nice of you to offer me my own porridge cup,” she said with sharp sarcasm that put Mama June’s teeth on edge.

From the corner of her eye she caught Morgan’s swift turn of head at the tone, his eyes searching.

Despite Mama June’s protests, Adele put the porridge cup back on the shelf with a great show.

Mama June was sensitive to the fact that it was difficult for her sister-in-law to be a guest in the house she’d grown up in. Though she’d never said so openly, it was clearly understood by both women that even though Mama June owned Sweetgrass, she wasn’t from Sweetgrass. And that fact was a major burr under Adele’s seat.

Letting the comment slide, she smiled and announced it was time for dinner.

The large meal that Mama June had slaved over was consumed with relish and compliments. She beamed as she watched her grandsons help themselves to seconds of the chicken with Madeira sauce from an old family recipe. The cocktails had loosened their tongues and they talked amiably as they ate. For a while she felt transported in time to when such gatherings were commonplace at Sweetgrass. Morgan, never much of a talker, spoke openly about his life in Montana, and the boys ate up his stories and peppered him with questions. They liked him, she thought with delight. And the feeling was mutual. Too soon, it was time to clear the dishes, and Nan helped her serve the pecan pie and ice cream that was a universal favorite.

She was pouring coffee when a subtle mood shift indicated they all sensed the chitchat was over and it was time to talk business. Their radars finely honed to such nuances, the boys asked to be excused from the table and dashed for the exit. Mama June sought Morgan’s eyes and they shared a commiserating look.

He cleared his throat and all heads turned toward him. She had purposefully set him in Preston’s seat at the head of the table, a gesture she knew had not gone unnoticed by Adele at his right. Nan sat to his left and Hank to Mama June’s right at the table’s other end.

“I wish my homecoming had been under happier circumstances,” he began.

“Lord knows we all waited long enough, bless your heart,” Adele said.

“Yes. A long time,” he replied.

How extraordinary, Mama June thought. How coolly her son dealt with Adele’s niggling.

“Well, you’re home now,” Nan said, springing to his defense. “That’s what’s important.”

Mama June smiled gratefully at her daughter.

“Anyway,” Morgan continued, “Mama June has asked me to stay on for a while. And I’ve agreed.”

Adele’s brows rose as she exchanged a quick glance with Hank, who frowned.

“That’s wonderful,” exclaimed Nan. “I’d hoped you would, what with Daddy in the hospital.”

That was her opening. Mama June set her cup down in the saucer and straightened her shoulders. She looked around the table then settled on the supportive, bolstering stare of Morgan.

“I have good news. We are bringing Preston home!” she announced. “To Sweetgrass.”

There was a sudden hush over the table, as though a bomb had been dropped.

“You can’t be serious!” Adele blurted out.

“Why not?” Morgan asked. “It makes perfect sense to bring him home. It’s even recommended by the doctors.”

Hank threw his napkin on the table and leaned back in his chair in exasperation. “I should think it’s obvious why not,” he said. “The man can’t speak. He can hardly move!”

“Hank!” interjected Nan, horrified.

Mama June’s head swung toward him, speechless with disbelief.

“Why are you surprised?” Hank argued. “It may not be pretty, but it’s the truth. We can’t be romantic about this.”

“But we can be civil,” Mama June retorted.

“Mary June,” Adele said. “I thought we’d talked about this.”

“That doesn’t mean it is what I decided,” she replied. She could feel her back stiffening against the chair.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t mean to offend,” Adele said in that testy manner that informed she was about to do just that, “but everyone knows that Preston shielded you from financial decisions. You preferred it that way. Frankly, you can’t afford to bring him home. There’ll be medical costs, a decrease in family income and a rise in all of your fixed expenditures. You have to face the facts. You must consolidate and sell your assets.”

“You mean,” Morgan said flatly, “sell Sweetgrass.”

Adele turned from Mama June to look at her nephew, her brow raised at the fact that he’d entered the fray. Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

“Yes,” she replied succinctly. “Sweetgrass is your mother’s greatest asset. And it’s actually a very good time to sell.”

“How lucky for us he decided to have his stroke now,” Morgan replied.

Adele bristled.

“Adele,” Mama June said in an appeal for understanding. “This isn’t just about selling property. This is the family heritage. Preston has devoted his life to preserving it. Once Sweetgrass is gone, what will happen to us, to the family?”

Adele’s face hardened. “The family will simply have to move on.”

Mama June drew back. Her voice trembled with emotion. “I could never sell it out from under him. If the stroke didn’t kill him, that surely would.”

“Hank is right. You’re being romantic. I’m very worried about you and Preston,” Adele replied. “And disappointed in this decision.” She turned again to her nephew. “I think it’s plain irresponsible of Morgan to come home and interfere in what had already been decided by the family.”

Morgan folded his hands on the table, but did not rise to the bait.

Adele’s face tightened. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Mama June, is it so horrible to consider selling?” Nan asked. Her soft voice broke the escalating tension. “You and Daddy have worked hard all your lives. You never spend a penny on yourselves and I can’t remember when you’ve ever taken a vacation. Every dime you earn you put right back into this place. If you sell Sweetgrass, you’ll finally have a chance to take it easy. Really, Mama, won’t you have enough to worry about now just with Daddy? Why do you want to worry about trying to hang on to all this land, too? Let it go. Enjoy life a little.”

Mama June looked into her daughter’s large blue eyes, so much like her own, and felt her resolve slip. The thought of letting go of the burdens of Sweetgrass, of simply moving on to someplace easier, of not pinching pennies and worrying about money, was seductive.

Yet the guilt of letting go of the family land that Preston loved more than anything else weighed heavily on her mind.

“Won’t you miss Sweetgrass if it’s sold?” Morgan asked Nan.

Nan’s expression shifted as a soft smile reluctantly eased across her face. “Yes, sure,” she conceded. “I guess I will.”

“We all will,” Adele interjected, casting an impatient glance at her niece. “That’s not the point. We mustn’t slip into nostalgia or we’ll never be able to deal with what’s on our plate today. Besides,” she said as an aside to Morgan, “I thought you made your opinion perfectly clear years ago when you left. I believe it had something to do with dynamite and sending the whole place to hell.”

“He was angry,” Mama June quickly said. Making excuses for Morgan came readily to her.

“That was more about what was between me and my father than about the land,” he replied, the first hint of steel entering in his voice. “And to that point, this decision is between my mother and my father.”

He paused, meeting the challenge in Hank’s glare. Then, spreading his palms against the table, he said in a controlled voice that brooked no further discussion, “Mama June has listened to all of our opinions and weighed them. She’s made her decision.” He looked directly at his aunt. “I’m sure if she wants you to know something more, she’ll contact you.”

Mama June felt a tightness in her stomach as Morgan’s defense became offense. She glanced quickly at Adele. Her jaw worked at what she certainly viewed as impudence. Adele Blakely was not accustomed to such treatment and Mama June knew she’d hear no end of it.

“Well, I know when I’ve been asked to leave,” Adele said, springing to her feet.

“Adele, don’t go,” implored Mama June. Adele often felt pique and walked off in a huff, expecting others to make amends.

“I can’t say that I’m happy with this decision, but you obviously don’t want my opinion.” She shot a glance at Hank.

Hank rose and gave the let’s-go look to Nan. She promptly followed suit. Adele walked swiftly out, followed closely by Hank. Nan shrugged helplessly then followed her husband from the room. Mama June heard her calling up the stairs for the boys to hurry up, they were leaving.

Mama June sighed and pulled herself from her chair.

“Let them go, Mama,” Morgan said.

She was sorely tempted. She’d worked tirelessly for days to prepare this dinner and felt utterly spent. A mountain of dishes awaited her in the kitchen. She didn’t care at that moment if Adele agreed with her decision or not, nor whether she stormed off, not to be heard from for months, as she’d done in the past. Nonetheless, her upbringing dragged her to her feet.

“It goes against my grain to let a guest, much less my sister-in-law, leave my home upset.”

So she hurried after her, her heels clicking loudly on the polished hardwood floors. Nan was already at her car having a heated exchange with Hank. On the porch, Mama June placed her hand on Adele’s sleeve, arresting her hasty departure.

“Let’s not argue,” she said to Adele.

“I’m very upset.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But, dear, we need to come together now. For Preston’s sake. He needs us all.”

In a spontaneous rush, Adele stepped forward to hug her, tight and fierce. Mama June was swept back to long ago when they were best friends.

Adele pulled back and urged her with her dark eyes blazing, “Think again, Mary June. Before it’s too late.”

Then Adele released her and walked swiftly down the stairs to her car. Blackjack barked madly from his den beneath the porch.

Mama June heard the screen door slam behind her and felt her son’s arm slide around her shoulder. She sighed and leaned into him, relishing his kiss upon the top of her head.

They watched until Adele’s sleek Jaguar, followed by Nan’s Lexus, disappeared down the drive, then stood side by side for several minutes longer. Each relished the peace of the family’s departure. Each was going over in their mind the comments that had been made, dissecting the words and analyzing the intent.

“This storm will blow over,” he said to her.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she replied, though she didn’t really feel so. Old scabs had been reopened that would take time to heal. “Perhaps I put too much store in all going well today. I so wanted their cooperation.”

“And you’ll have it. They just had to blow off steam.”

“I’m not so certain. Adele can be rigid, and Nan’s a dear but she follows Hank’s lead.”

“She’s a sweet kid, but she has no backbone.”

Mama June didn’t respond, fearing that the same might have been said about herself over the years.

“Adele pinched the cup, you know,” Morgan said with amusement in his voice.

“What? The porridge cup?”

He nodded, his lips twisted in disgust.

Mama June shook her head. “It was hers, anyway.”

“You’re not going to say anything?”

“No, let it go. I offered it to her, after all. Besides, it’s not the first thing she’s pinched, as you call it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It’s never something of great value, at least monetarily. But over the years I’ve noticed a photograph missing, or a piece of family silver, or a painting from her old bedroom. All things that I’m sure she’s rationalized belong to her. For whatever reasons, she needs them. I’ve found it best just not to say anything.”

Movement caught her attention, and turning her head, she saw a thick-set woman in a blue floral dress and a purple slicker coming up the sidewalk from around back.

“Nona!” she called out with a quick wave.

Nona’s face rose toward the stairs and broke into a quick grin. “’Afternoon, Mary June.”

“Nona!” Morgan exclaimed, dashing down the stairs. He swooped Nona in his arms and they hugged warmly, instantly nanny and child again. Morgan held her at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. I swear, you never change. Make a pact with the devil to look so good at your age? And it’s no use lying. I know exactly how old you are.”

“Just living the good life,” Nona quipped. “More than I can say for you! What’s all this long, shaggy hair? And buttons missing from your shirt? You used to be such a fine dresser. Remember those white bucks? Lord, you were like a peacock in those days. You need some caring after, that’s for certain. Don’t they have women where you been living? You can’t find yourself a wife?”

“Come in, come in,” Mama June exclaimed, gesturing with her hand toward the house.

“I can’t stay long. I came along with Elmore. He’s out yonder checking on the sweetgrass,” she said, indicating the direction of the fields with a jerk of her chin. “The first pulling of the season will be here before we know it. Speaking of which…” She lifted her arms to Mama June to offer a beautiful sweetgrass basket with a curved handle.

“Elmore and I, we were sorry to hear Mr. Preston took sick and wanted to bring something. From our house to yours.”

Mama June was more touched by the sentiment than she could express. She took hold of the intricately sewn bread basket made of coiled sweetgrass, rush and pine needles with the same reverence she would an olive branch. Inside the basket, tucked neatly in a blue-checked napkin, were Nona’s homemade buttermilk biscuits.

She felt her heart shift and pump with age-old affection. “Nona, this is so kind of you. It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted one of your biscuits. Morgan was saying how he longed for them. Please, won’t you come in? We just had dinner, but I have pecan pie. And coffee.” She grinned wide. Nona’s love for coffee was well known.

“Maybe just for a coffee. It’ll give me a chance to catch up with that wild boy of yours.”

Later, after coffee and pie were finished and Morgan had gone off to tend to Blackjack, Mama June spoke in confidential tones to Nona about what had transpired that afternoon.

“Good riddance,” Nona said, her lip curled in disgust. “That woman is a real pain in the you-know-where. Always has been.”

“What have I done?” Mama June asked, staring out with dismay.

“You showed some backbone, that’s what you’ve done. Praise Lord!”

Mary June placed her fingers to her brow. “A lot of good it did me. I’ve alienated my family. Now I’m alone.”

Nona pursed her lips, then said, “No, you’re not. You have me.”

Mama June dropped her hand. “But…”

“I realized I was no kind of friend to let you go through this alone. Not after all we’ve been through together. Now, I can’t do all I used to—and neither can you. But together we’ll manage. I’ll come by to make sure the house is running smoothly and make certain you’re not starving while you tend to your husband. And I’ll lend an ear when you need it. It’s the least any friend could do.”

Mama June’s hands squeezed around Nona’s. “I can’t thank you enough. Just knowing you’re here…”

“Let’s not get all weepy. Lord knows, we’ve got our work cut out for us!”

6

Skill, craftsmanship and long hours of work are involved in making sweetgrass baskets. A simple design can take as long as twelve hours. A larger, more complex design can take as long as two to three months.

NONA SIGHED HEAVILY as she brought her van to a stop at Sweetgrass. She looked through the shaded windshield at the handsome white house. It sure was a picture, she thought, cloaked as it was in the pink light of early morning. She’d spent the better part of her life working in this old house and a part of her was happy to come back to it. Maize couldn’t understand such feelings—and that was okay. Nona prided herself on the choices she’d made in her own life and didn’t care to change her ways now. The wind did blow when Maize heard she’d decided to come back to work at Sweetgrass, but it was up to Maize to accept what was.

Nona pulled herself out from the shiny white van, stretching a bit after landing in the soft gravel. She’d bought the car after years of saving her basket money, and every time she looked at it, a ripple of pride coursed through her. Usually it was stuffed to the brim with her baskets, but she’d removed the treasures to store safely in her house until things were settled here at Sweetgrass. She pulled from the van a large canvas bag filled with grass, palmetto fronds and her tools. Every spare minute, her fingers sewed the baskets.

Blackjack greeted her in his usual manner, a grayed muzzle at her thigh and his tail waving behind like a tom-tom drum.

“Hello, you ol’ hound dog,” she exclaimed with affection, bending to pat the fur.

Morgan’s voice caught her by surprise. “’Morning, Nona! You’re here early. What? You can’t stay away?”

His tall, lanky form came from around the side of the house. He was dressed in a faded old T-shirt that was torn at the neck, paint-splattered jeans and worn hiking boots caked with mud. His face was as yet unshaven, and his thick brown curls tumbled askew on his head. He looked like the eight-year-old boy she remembered running in from the field, blue eyes twinkling, to show her a robin’s egg or a snake skin or some other treasure he’d unearthed.

Nona clucked her tongue. “What you got in your hands there?” she asked, indicating the towel he was carrying. “A frog?”

He lifted a paintbrush from the towel. “I’m fixing up the kitchen house. Mama June wants the new aide to stay there. I’ve patched up a few leaks in the roof, put in a window air conditioner in the bedroom, new screens on the windows and now I’m finishing up a fresh coat of paint. You know,” he said, scratching his jaw, “it’s looking pretty good. I’m thinking maybe I should move in, instead.”

“Oh, no you don’t. That girl’s going to want her own space. So’s your mama. You just be a good boy and finish fixing that place up for Miss…what’s her name?”

“Kristina Hays.”

She acknowledged this with a nod. “Well, I’ve got things to get done before Miss Hays arrives, too.”

“I hope she works out.”

“You and me both.” She looked over to the house. “Seems quiet in there.”

“Mama’s sleeping now, or was last time I checked.”

Her brows rose. “Your mama’s still asleep?” She glanced quickly at her wristwatch. “She always rises with the sun. She’s not sick, is she?”

He shook his head. “Just exhausted. I didn’t bother her, and frankly, I’m glad she’s catching up. She’s been going non-stop.”

“That’s just her way. When she’s got herself a project, she gives one hundred percent. And given that this project is your daddy, she’s straining all her gears.”

“Yeah, but she’s sixty-six years old.”

“I’m sixty-eight! What’s your point?”

Morgan laughed. Nona was one of those people who was ageless. She seemed to him today to be the same woman she was when he was a boy. She still stood straight-backed and full-breasted, like some Wagnerian princess. Her hair still gleamed, too, though more like the black-and-white osprey’s wing than a raven’s. She wore it in much the same, short-curled style. Most of all, her spirit had not aged one whit.

One of his first memories of Nona was when he was three or four. Her finger was wagging and her eyes were flames as she scolded his older brother, Hamlin, within an inch of his life. Ham was much older, around thirteen. Yet there he was with his head bowed, filled with remorse. Up till that time, his big brother had seemed to him like a prince among men, a hero beyond reproach. Certainly his parents had never laid down the law like that. Morgan never figured out exactly what it was that Hamlin had done to rile Nona so, though he knew it had something to do with Hamlin taking Morgan out on the boat. Ham had taken him out lots of times without permission, but Morgan was too young to understand why Nona would be so upset about that. Only in retrospect did he see that it was an omen. Nonetheless, his earth had shifted that day as he witnessed her power over his brother.

Morgan put his hands up in mock surrender. “No point made.”

Her dark eyes gleamed in amused triumph. “She’ll get herself up before too long. You eat yet?” she asked him.

“Grabbed some orange juice and a Pop-Tart.”

Nona wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s no wonder you’re looking like a scarecrow. I’m amazed you managed to live so long all alone.”

“Who said I was alone?”

That caught her off guard and her face showed it. She quickly recouped, delivering a no-nonsense glare at his smirk. “Don’t you just wish. What woman is gonna hitch her star to someone as dog-ugly as you? Come back inside in about half an hour. I’m fixing to roll out some biscuits and fry up some bacon. And coffee,” she added, her body yearning for her beloved brew.

Morgan smiled as he watched Nona climb the stairs to the house. It wasn’t often he could render Nona speechless.

Hours later, Morgan was applying the last coat of Charleston Green paint to the kitchen house front door when he heard a car pulling up to the house followed by Blackjack’s gruff bark of alarm. The dog’s arthritic legs strained under the effort of rising. Feeling like an old dog himself after a long morning of painting, he slowly straightened with one hand anchoring the small of his back. His gaze followed Blackjack’s rush toward the sound of crunching gravel.

From around the house, a tall, lean woman dressed in bleached jean lowriders and a cuffed white shirt walked toward him with a straight-backed, confident, hip-swaying gait. Her oversize, scuffed brown leather purse banged against her slender hip in steady, seductive rhythm. Morgan watched her, squinting in the noonday sun. Against the glare, her long, wildly curly hair seemed an aura around her head that captured and held the golden light.

“Hi there,” she called out as she approached. Her voice lilted at the end, like a song.

“Hello,” he responded with more reserve as she breezily sauntered near. “Can I help you?”

Up close, the force of her personality dominated his first impression. The young woman vibrated with life. It sparked out from her bright blue eyes and shone from her very white, no-holds-barred smile.

“I hope so,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. “I’m looking for the Blakely residence.”

“Well, you found it.”

“Good! The directions said to turn in at the Sweetgrass gate and you’re the only house I’ve found.” She put out her hand. “I’m Kristina Hays. The agency sent me.”

He blinked again. “You’re the new aide?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile faltering. “I hope you’re expecting me.”

Morgan quickly recouped. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m Morgan. Morgan Blakely.”

She took his hand and he was impressed by the strength of her handshake.

“You seem surprised to see me,” she said.

“It’s just…well, you’re different than I expected.” He didn’t quite know what he expected, exactly. “Younger,” he added lamely.

“I don’t believe in age. But don’t worry, I’m old enough. And I’ve been doing this for years, though not in South Carolina. I only moved here a few months ago. From California,” she added, as though this fact alone qualified her for the job.

Blackjack, who had been circling anxiously, finally could bear it no longer and nosed closer, boldly began sniffing her feet.

“Hey there, big fella!” she exclaimed warmly. “Are we ignoring you? What’s your name?” She dropped her bag and bent to warmly pat his head and flop his ears.

Rather than be suspicious of the stranger, Blackjack whined happily at her attention, rudely pawing her legs.

“Blackjack!” Morgan called. “Back off!”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, still stroking the black fur. “Dogs like me. Blackjack, huh? Good name.”

He lifted his chin toward the house. “Here comes my mother now.”

He felt a boyish pride and affection at the sight of his mother striding along the path from the main house to the kitchen house. She was simply dressed in a dark skirt, floral blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair was a snowy-white mass twisted into a bun at the back of her head. Signs of the beauty she once was added charm to the graciousness and fresh, scrubbed appeal of her open, smiling face.

“Miss Hays? I’m Mary June Blakely. Welcome to Sweetgrass.”

Kristina’s warmth matched his mother’s as she reached out to take her offered hand. The two women’s eyes met and measured; Morgan could feel the tacit approval in the air.

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