Driving to Granny Olivia’s house, my mind flooded with memories of the many summers and holidays at the old house. There were those mothers who would have banned their daughter’s presence because she bore a baby out of wedlock, but not Granny. She didn’t approve, but she didn’t punish. She forgave and then welcomed us with open arms. I enjoyed going there with my mother, but I really enjoyed the times I stayed with Granny by myself—just the two of us.
People dubbed Granny eccentric, but that was her appeal. She was unique. All who truly knew her recognized her to be a woman of strong faith who was unafraid to show it. She was independent. Though widowed early in life she had taken care of herself and her daughter. If only I could boast the same faith and independence.
I strained to catch my first glimpse of the house. As I pulled into the driveway I sat admiring the place which had always been one of safety and yet adventure. I struggled, knowing that she wouldn’t be there to greet me at the front door dressed in her wild Hawaiian shirt. As soon as the door swung open, her scent accosted me. She used powder she ordered from a lady who sold Avon. It was a sweet, flowery smell. Subtle, not loud.
“Oh, what I’d do for one more slumber party, Granny.”
I plopped into her favorite chair, the one with the wide armrests where she would lay her Bible and journal. What should I do now? I had a roof over my head, thanks to Granny, but I needed to find a job to keep the lights on and food in the cupboards.
Memory snapshots appeared on the album of my mind. The living room prompted a picture of the tent Granny and I made by throwing blankets across the furniture. My nose almost caught a whiff of the vanilla and maple syrup wafting from the pancakes we made in the electric skillet. Another scent drifted through my memory, the tart-buttermilk aroma of baking biscuits. Immediately my mouth watered, and I could almost taste the smooth cinnamon goodness of the apple butter that accompanied those biscuits. I wandered toward the screened-in porch and all of the sudden I was back at the picnic we had there on our magic carpet.
I wrapped my arms around myself and massaged them, hoping to lessen the ache resonating from the sheer loss. I never considered I would end up single with no plan. When I married Justin, I thought it would be forever. I was naïve or a hopeless romantic. Maybe both. Mother warned me about marrying right after high school graduation. I figured she didn’t know anything about marriage. Our plan was I would work to put Justin through dental school, and then he would return the favor for me. I did my part, but I would never forget the day I caught him and Trisha. She turned out not to be a friend after all.
“We just couldn’t help ourselves. We’re in love,” I could still hear him say.
I should’ve asked where I could send him a bill for all of the school I paid for and the food I put on the table. I was too hurt and angry to speak.
I scanned the kitchen. This was where I came to back then. Granny consoled me.
“It is quite difficult to procure a knight in shining armor these days,” Granny had said. Her voice resonated in my head, broken with compassion. Many the world over could think of no place they might go to receive love, but I never had such a dilemma.
Suddenly my body drooped, bone-weary. A dull persistent pain pounded through the ends of my arms and legs, drawing me like a magnet to Granny’s bed. I hopped the steps two at a time. Where had that needed energy burst come from?
My eyes scanned Granny’s bedroom. Still unchanged. I grinned. The hardwood floors were barely visible due to the large rugs strategically placed around the room. Granny said nothing was worse than stepping from your cozy bed onto an ice-cold floor. The tall, four poster bed was still donned with the dainty floral printed comforter. The round night tables flanked each side with the antique lamps atop. Kicking off my shoes, I wiggled my toes in the soft pale pink carpet. The elaborate dresser stood at the foot of the bed. Standing in front of it, I found the brush and mirror set. Picking it up I noticed a small cluster of Granny’s silver-gray hair stuck between the bristles. I swallowed at the lump in my throat.
My eyes surveyed all of the articles atop the dresser. I stopped on a framed picture and picked it up. I studied the smiling faces found there. I couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. My head leaned against Granny’s. Our arms were slung around each other’s shoulders. Pals. I hugged the picture to my chest as if that would change the fact that Granny was gone, and I was alone.
Weariness overtook me again, and I placed the picture on the bedside table. The nearness made me feel a little less lonely.
On the small shelf across the room records still perched, ready to play a concert on the old stereo. I was convinced my granny had the idea for the first Gaither Homecoming. Every night the records would fall and ring out in succession, all the old favorites from Southern Gospel music. I pushed the button, and the first disc fell. I turned down the volume so it provided some background music in the silent house. I wasn’t sure the old home could go to sleep if the concert didn’t go on.
Slipping between the covers, my body sank into the pillow top, hugging me. I let out a “mmm.” The bed was comfortable, but the memories even more so.
After Granny finished her Bible reading and prayer time, she would reach for her journal and entertain me with the best bedtime stories a girl could ever dream of. I jumped back out of bed just long enough to grab my journal. What a habit she had me in! People had various nighttime rituals, but Granny’s was reading a little and writing a little. Now, I had her to thank for not being able to go to sleep until I had followed suit. But, I couldn’t bring myself to retrieve my Bible tonight. My grudge against God still held tight.
When I opened my journal that evening, my pen hovered over the blank page. “There’s nothing, Granny. I feel numb. If only I could’ve talked with you more.”
Granny’s voice echoed in my head. “Write out what you’re feeling.” She had told me to do that when Mom died. I had felt better afterward. Finally my hand began to move the pen across the page, spilling out every emotion in my heart. I wrote several pages, realizing the words ranged from anger to sorrow to thankfulness. By the time I had scribbled about my ire at God for taking Granny and the anguish I felt in her absence, I found myself writing memories. Granny was gone, but much too memorable to forget.
* * *
Because I had written well into the night, I slept in the next morning. I took my time getting ready that afternoon.
I had never been fond of funerals. I detested those who just must say something, so they announced how good the deceased looked. That comment prompted me to scream. For goodness sakes, the person was dead! Made me wonder how they looked when they were alive. I braced myself for some similar comments today. Suddenly a heavy weight gripped my chest. How would I survive this day alone? When Mom died, I had Granny right there beside me. Although she grieved, she was my fortress, she held me up. Now, I was on my own.
I moseyed to my closet in an attempt to piece together something appropriate for the funeral service. Black was such a sad color, but it has usually been the color of choice in these times. I finally located a plain dark skirt and lightweight sweater. Would the knit top work? It was nearing fall. It was all I had.
It would be best to arrive early for the funeral since I was the only living relative. Would there be questions I needed to answer? I pulled into the church parking lot at 4:15 and my eyes bulged. The lot was filled with cars. Should I return at five? Possibly there was some other activity before the funeral. I located a vacant spot, pulled in, sat, and contemplated my next move. All of the other people emerged from their cars dressed in dark colors. Could all of these people be here for Granny’s funeral? As I stood, I caught a glimpse of the church sign. I looked more closely—Miss Olivia, you will be missed.
A new wave of sorrow rushed over me. I ambled toward the church. A line of people stretched out the entrance. I worked my way through the throng of people and was greeted by a prim and proper woman at the threshold of the sanctuary. “Do you need some assistance, my dear?” Her voice was smooth like syrup.
“I’m Alexandra Lyndon.”
The woman immediately took my hand and pulled me through the crowd to the front of the church. We stopped in front of the pastor. I recognized him from the times I had visited here.
“Dear, Alexandra is here.”
The minister extended his hand to me, and I placed my hand in his. “I’m so sorry for your loss. You should be here near the casket to greet others.” His voice was gentle and sincere.
I released his hand and pushed through the line. My first sight of Granny brought a smile to my lips. She wore the same brightly colored Hawaiian shirt she had greeted me in that first summer I stayed with her. Why not? She had no need for mourning where she was. Black would not have been right for her. This was perfect. Although I heard people talk about how good and natural she looked, I disagreed. She was never that still. That shell had no resemblance to the woman I knew as my grandmother. After a few people began to recognize me, I had many handshakes and even hugs. People still filed into the church when the time for the funeral service arrived. The pastor asked everyone to find a seat or a spot to stand so he could proceed. I was escorted to the front pew on the right. The pastor leaned down and whispered into my ear. “Do you want to say a few words?”
A lump swelled in my throat. I swallowed hard and shook my head. I wrapped my arms around my waist and glanced at the empty pew stretching out to my right. Alone. I blinked back tears.
The minister needed no help from me anyway. He captured Granny perfectly. He obviously held her in high regard, for he struggled to keep his composure several times during his remarks. After the service, the line formed again. I was unsure how long I could endure, even though all of the sentiments rendered were heartfelt and sweet.
A warm hand grasped mine. I looked up into brilliant blue eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss.” His hand lingered, holding to mine. His sandy brown hair brushed the shoulders of his blazer. “I’m Chase Carson.” He smiled and studied my face. “And, you have to be Alex.”
Who was this man? He knew my name. “How did you know my Granny Olivia?”
His eyes darted, and he sucked in a breath. “Business.” Then, he rushed away.
* * *
Chase sprinted to his car. His pulse pounded in his ears. The pictures Miss Olivia had shown him of Alex didn’t do her justice. She was petite, and he was caught off guard by her hazel eyes and dark wavy hair.
Obviously Alex had no idea about him or the reason he might be here. Miss Olivia hadn’t told her granddaughter before her death. This made his mission a bit more complicated. But, he had to find what he had come to retrieve.
Would Alex have any clues? He would find out soon when he paid her a visit.