“What other plants do you like, Bee?”
“Bee?” Hannah’s face wrinkles. “Beverly,” she corrects, but her mother’s eyes have opened and the grin on her face grows. I don’t understand what’s happening here. The same snarky woman who greeted me over a week ago and the one who snooped in my room earlier is absent. In her place is this meek, quiet woman seated next to me.
“We used to grow the most beautiful sunflowers.” Beverly finally answers for herself, and I watch as her face morphs from pride to sadness. She closed down as fast as she opened up, and her eyes snap over to her child. “I apologize, but I find I’m not very hungry this evening. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to retire early.”
Beverly’s hardly touched her meatloaf. Who retires at six thirteen in the evening? She reaches toward the floor, lifts her forearm crutches, and works her arms into the cuffs.
“Momma, I told you, you should have sat in your chair. It would be easier for you.” Hannah immediately stands to assist her mother as do I, and for the first time, Beverly looks at me. Her eyes plead with mine.
“Please, don't help me.” The normal bite and bark of her tone is absent, and hollowness remains. My hand lingers between my body and hers—my hook hand—and not for the first time, I wonder if Beverly is afraid of it. It seems preposterous to consider she’s nervous of a mechanical hand as she has her own assistive device, yet there are so many things I don’t understand about Beverly Townsen.
“Please don’t let me interrupt. Finish this delicious meatloaf my daughter prepared for you, Mr. Flemming. It was wonderful having you join us this evening. Feel free to come to supper anytime.” The emptiness of her tone laced with her finest manners troubles me. Who is this woman? Remaining standing, I exert my own manners as a woman excuses herself from the dinner table, and I watch in frustration as Hannah hovers behind her mother down the hall.
I should excuse myself, but I don’t. I wait until Hannah returns to the kitchen.
“Has it been difficult? All these years just the two of you?” I soften my tone, knowing I’m balancing on a precipice that’s none of my business, but I feel a kinship with Hannah Townsen, fearing she’s worked hard as a child to please her parent, who might not have been grateful for all she gave up.
Hannah lifts her head, and with conviction, she states, “I’m all Momma has.”
I’ve learned that isn’t exactly true as Beverly’s sister, Naomi Winters—a local librarian—took her to the Piggly Wiggly during the week.
“What about Naomi?”
Hannah straightens at the mention of her aunt. “Aunt Naomi’s been as dedicated as she could be, but Momma is very private. She’s always felt guilty for shunning her younger sister when she was in need. Momma didn’t want to be a burden to her. To either of her sisters.” Hannah’s lips twist as if she’s told me more than she intended.
“Sisters?”
“Momma’s older sister is Scotia Simmons.”
My brows raise in surprise. The Simmons family were Valley royalty like the Donners and the Olivers.
“Any relation to Karl Simmons?” He was the only child, the golden child, of old Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, and a few years older than me in school. His mother often referred to him as their miracle baby.
“His widow,” Hannah clarifies.
“What happened to him?” I ask like a church-going gossip.
“He was murdered. Mistaken identity.”
Oh my. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I offer, but Hannah dismissively snorts at the sentiment about her uncle. “What about Scotia? She couldn’t have helped your momma?”
“Financially, Scotia could have done all kinds of things, but Momma and she haven’t always gotten along, and Momma would have refused charity from her sister, had she offered.” Hannah’s mouth twists again as though locking her lips has been difficult. She quickly tries to rectify. “But Momma doesn’t want charity.”
How is helping a sibling charity?
I should ask Hannah about Beverly’s beau. Where is this mystery man? Why isn’t he helping her? But I don’t want the daughter to think I’m prying too deeply into the mother’s affairs. It’s none of my business if she has a man. A lackluster, surprisingly absent man.
There’s so much I suddenly want to know about Beverly. So many pieces to a puzzle that don’t fit, but I don’t continue interrogating Hannah. I thank her for dinner and see myself out.
Chapter Eight
[Beverly]
“Bev, do you think you’ll ever love again?” my sister Naomi questions as we sit in a booth at Daisy’s Nut House. It’s been a few days since that disastrous first dinner with Jedd, and I’ve decided to break my cycle of ogling him from the window, especially as I can’t really see the progress he’s making inside the barn. I haven’t ventured over to spy or snoop like I did the other morning, choosing instead to remain on my side of the yard. Still, I am curious, but I’m even more curious what has made my sister ask such a question. I sputter tea all over myself, and the spray rivals a hose pressurized by a thumb for maximum water coverage. Continuing to sputter-cough, I try to respond.
“Would I what?” I’m not looking at her as I reach for paper napkins in the metal dispenser on the table and then struggle to dab the large stains mercilessly spreading on my white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. It’s one of my best shirts. I haven’t bought anything new for myself in years, allowing Hannah to make all my clothing decisions and purchases in the last decade. I don’t want her wasting her hard-earned money, and I don’t feel right asking for personal items I don’t need. I don’t go anywhere other than to church on Sunday and my outings with Naomi on Wednesdays, so anything more than casual attire isn’t a necessity. I’ve had this blouse forever, and I wanted to look a little nicer today for no particular reason, so I snap at my sister, “You made me ruin my shirt.”
“That shirt needs to be ruined,” she bites. My head pops up, and I widen my eyes at her retort. My sister never talks back to me, and she never insults me, or anyone for that matter.
“What makes you say such a thing?”
“That blouse isn’t flattering on you.”
Just when I think I can’t open my eyes any wider, I try. “I meant why would you ask me about love?”
She shrugs, looking out the window toward the parking lot, and I stare back at her. My sister has gray-white hair in wild waves down to her breasts. It’s gorgeous, and so is she; she’s just been misunderstood in this community. We both have. She hasn’t dated. Ever. After one night with a young man when she was twenty-one, she gave up on the opposite sex. Oh, the irony. Her heart broke in a million fragments, but she’s put herself back together as a new person. She’s very different from when we were teenagers. She was the reckless one while I was the one with stars in my eyes. Unintentionally mischievous—objects in the toilet, overflowing a bathroom sink, artwork on the back of a couch—I wasn’t a risk-taker like Naomi had been. Or like our brother Jebediah. I was just…creatively curious.