Мэри Элис Монро – Sweetgrass (страница 5)

“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.”