The sheriff was standing in the parking lot when they stepped outside. He watched their progress across the sidewalk with a stern expression.
“It’s an emergency!” Presley was purposely a little dramatic. “A hundred-year-old lady might starve if we don’t go!”
The sheriff turned to Mac.
“Loralee needs groceries.”
The sheriff nodded. “Go on.”
Since he seemed to be in a relatively good mood, Presley risked a question. “Do you know how much longer you’ll be here?”
“That depends on what the FBI finds,” Sheriff Bonham replied. “If the backyard is clean, I expect everyone will be cleared out by dark. But if they come up with something—anything—then we’ll probably have the state police and the governor here. Your aunt may never get her house back. I’m sorry,” he added a little grudgingly. “It’s out of my control.”
“We understand,” Presley assured him. “I’ve seen the television reports on the Skeleton Murders.”
Sheriff Bonham rolled his eyes. “I hate news reporters.”
Presley tried to imagine the stern sheriff actually liking anyone as they ducked under the crime-scene tape and walked to the tow truck. Mac opened the passenger door and gave her a hand up.
As they drove past the Cleckler’s house, he said, “Seriously, even though you’ve been taught not to show fear, I’m surprised you didn’t change your mind about Haggerty after last night.”
She couldn’t tell him how limited her options were, so she said, “I’ll give Haggerty another chance, but one more skeleton and I’m gone.”
He shifted gears, and she stole a glance at his right hand to check for evidence of new cuts. His hand looked as bad as it did the day before but no worse. She turned slightly in her seat so she could face his profile. “I met your cousin today.”
He shifted into a higher gear. “Which one?”
“Wyatt.”
He smiled. “Let me guess, he asked you out?”
“Several times,” she confirmed. “He even offered to clear a spot on his busy social calendar.”
“He always works hard at being a ladies’ man.”
“But you don’t?” She regretted the question immediately, but it was too late to recall it.
“I did my share of flirting before I got married,” he said. “But Wyatt has turned it into an art form.”
Presley stared back, horrified. It never occurred to her that she was taking him away from his family. “You’re married?”
He winced. “Well, I used to be. I’m in the process of getting a divorce now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too. But it’s been over for a while. She’s already with someone else, and they have a kid.”
Presley stared out the windshield, dumbfounded. It was hard to imagine Mac married and even harder to imagine a woman who would let him go.
He pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store called the Piggly Wiggly. Presley looked up at the big smiling pig’s head in awe. “I didn’t know these stores existed anymore. It’s like something from the past.”
“The entire town of Haggerty is something from the past.” He climbed out and waved for her to slide across. Then he took her hand and helped her down. “We have a nice Walmart Supercenter out on Highway 11, but Loralee insists on buying her groceries here even though the prices are higher. She likes to support local businesses.”
“People like Loralee will save the Piggly Wigglys of the world.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And that’s a good thing?”
Before she could answer, his phone rang. He looked at the screen and grimaced. “I have to take this. You want to wait for me?”
“I’ll go ahead and get started. Catch up when you finish your call.”
The store was small, cramped, and a little smelly but surprisingly pleasant. She went up and down every aisle searching for the items Loralee had requested. It was a good list, complete with little notes like “real butter not that healthy stuff.”
By the time Mac joined her, she was almost done.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. Just double-check the things in my basket and make sure it’s what Loralee wants.”
He looked through everything and only switched out the milk. “Loralee supports local dairies too, so you can’t buy the store brand.”
She nodded. “I’ll remember that.”
“Well, Mac!” the cashier said when they were ready to pay. “How are you, honey?”
“I’m good, Miss Raye.”
“The football team is starting spring practice this week,” she said. “You gonna go by and offer any advice?”
“Probably not.” Mac pulled out some cash and paid for the groceries.
“If you want tickets to the inter-squad game next Friday, my daughter, Carla, is selling ’em. Just five bucks a piece!”
Mac put the last bag into the cart. “Thanks, but I’m done with football.”
She patted him on the arm. “Bless your heart.”
As they walked outside, Presley whispered, “You played football?”
“Just about every boy in Haggerty played football at some point. It was a big part of my life when I was growing up.”
“I hate all contact sports, especially football.” She took his hand, and he propelled her into the truck.
He passed the grocery bags up, and she arranged them at her feet.
“It’s just a game.”
“It’s very dangerous,” she said. “Do you know how many children get hurt every year playing football?” Assuming he didn’t have that statistic memorized, she didn’t wait for him to respond. “And it has psychological and emotional effects as well. Studies show that it encourages violent tendencies, promotes bullying, and damages self-esteem.”
He swung up into the driver’s seat. “Football promotes exercise, teamwork, and is a lot of fun. You can take anything too far, but I can’t agree that football is inherently bad.”
“Google it,” Presley said. “You’ll see.”
He smiled. “Have you ever been to a football game?”
She shook her head. “Why would I help support something I’m morally opposed to?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know it was possible to be morally opposed to football.”
She smirked. “I’m living proof.”
“You should go to a game sometime. It might change your opinion.”
She hoped her face expressed how much she doubted this.
He started the truck. “If you stay in Haggerty, you might not have a choice about that. But in the meantime, on Friday nights in the fall, we can go to the movies and have the theater all to ourselves.”
She felt a little quivery inside. It was nice to think about sitting in a movie theater with Mac, but she didn’t know if she would still be in Haggerty in the fall.
“Football’s a part of my past,” he continued. “So can we be friends? Or are there more qualifications?”
She laughed. “You’ve met all my criteria. We are officially friends.”
They rode by the high school, and Mac pointed out the players on the football field. “Spring practice. Are you sure you don’t want to stop and watch?”
She cut her eyes over at him. “I’m sure.”
They passed the Dollar General and the Pizza Palace. “That place is pretty good,” he said. “Probably worth the carbs if you ever get in the mood for pizza.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, although she doubted that particular mood would ever strike. But the mention of food reminded her that Mac had paid for Loralee’s groceries. “Are you supposed to give me the receipt for Loralee’s groceries so Aunt Violet can reimburse you?”
“Loralee doesn’t have enough in her account to cover all her expenses, so we take turns paying for her groceries. That way it’s not too much for anyone.”
She nodded. “Sounds sensible. Who is ‘we’?”
“My cousins and me.”
“Wyatt Abernathy pays for Loralee’s groceries?”
“Once a month,” Mac confirmed. “And he pays her annual property taxes. That’s one of the reasons he came to your aunt’s office today. I’m sure he wanted to ask you out too,” he was quick to add, “but the taxes will be due soon.”
Presley frowned. “I didn’t see him give my aunt any money.”
“But I’ll guarantee you he did. Ask your aunt when you get home.”
“If that’s true, I’m going to have to rethink my entire opinion of your cousin.”
“He’s not completely vain and self-centered. He does have a little touch of humanity.”
As she considered this, Presley noticed that the road seemed to get smaller and the trees seemed to get closer. Finally Mac pulled the truck to a stop. “Loralee’s house is right through there.” He pointed to a gap in the trees. “I’ve got a tow job, so if you’ll take the perishables with you, I’ll bring the rest when I come back.”
She stared at him in unhappy astonishment. “You’re going to leave me here? In the middle of the woods?”
He laughed. “It’s not the middle of the woods. If you look close, you can see her gate from here.”
“But you’re going to leave me,” she confirmed. “With Loralee.”
“You’ll be fine. She may talk your ear off, but that won’t hurt you. And I know you don’t want to go with me while I repossess a fishing boat.”
“Repossess?” She hadn’t realized that was part of what he did. “Like the people on TV?”
“Not nearly that exciting, but it’s steady money. I’d postpone this one if I could, but if I don’t do it now, I’ll lose it.”
She sighed. “I don’t want you to lose your opportunity, and I guess I’d rather be here with Loralee than repossessing a boat. But just barely.” She consolidated the perishable food into three bags.
“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.
With a nod she hefted the grocery bags and trudged toward the woods.
“Presley!” He called out.
She turned.
“Let’s not mention the skeleton in Miss Violet’s backyard to Loralee. She’ll hear about it eventually, but . . .”
She nodded and then walked on to the gap in the trees.
Loralee’s house was more of a cottage, small and picturesque. Hansel and Gretel came to mind. It was surrounded by a picket fence that had been painted white but was peeling so a lot of weathered wood was exposed. The fence was lined with slightly overgrown shrubs, as if they were being allowed to look natural without overstepping their bounds.
An arched arbor covered with tiny budding rose blossoms curved above the gate. Presley pushed the gate, and it swung open. As she followed the brick walkway up to the cottage, she noticed that the flowerbeds surrounding the house were beginning to bloom and would be spectacular in the summer. There were small rosebushes, fragrant gardenias, lacy hydrangeas, and dramatic hyacinth. Honeysuckle vines tangled with wild blackberry bushes grew along the back fence. It was like a little paradise carved out of the forest.
She knocked on the door, and Versie answered.
“I’m delivering groceries for Loralee.”
“Come on in,” Versie invited.
“Do you stay here all the time with Loralee?”
“No, just a few hours every day. Mac wanted me to spend the night, but she won’t hear of it.”
Presley turned her attention to the cottage. She could see a small bedroom to the right through an open door. The room was dominated by an iron bed covered with what looked like an antique patchwork quilt.
The main room was small but beautiful in a rustic, unpretentious way. There were photographs all over the walls. Some were brittle with age and held in place with yellowed tape. Some were nailed directly to the wood planks. A few were in actual frames. There were flowers everywhere—in pots, in vases, in buckets. Some were dried, some cut, and some alive. It was almost as if the outside had continued indoors.
Versie waved toward the kitchen as she settled into a recliner near the fireplace. “You go on in there. I’ll sit here and work on my crocheting. I’ve got a great-grandbaby coming next month, and I’m trying to get a blanket ready.”
Presley carried the groceries around the corner to a kitchen that was predictably quaint but surprisingly spacious. She gestured to the photos on the wall. “You have an impressive picture gallery here.”
Loralee glanced at them. “I probably should put them in a book or something—to protect them. But they’re so old and brittle, I’m afraid they’ll disintegrate if I try to move them. I’ll be dead soon, and whoever moves into this place can just pull them off, I guess. Thank you for getting my groceries.”
“I just brought in the perishables,” Presley told her. “Mac had to go repossess a boat. He’ll bring the rest when he’s through.”
Loralee shook her head. “I wish that boy wouldn’t do such dangerous work.”
And then it clicked. The black eye and the cuts on his hands didn’t come from towing cars. They were injuries sustained while trying to repossess things. That’s what Aunt Violet had meant about hazards of his profession. Presley put the groceries on the table, feeling a little stunned and foolish.
Loralee searched through each bag until she found the butter. “I need this for the pecan pies I’m making for our Easter dinner. Violet always does the dressing, so she can teach you how. It’s a wonderful recipe that should be passed down in your family.”
Presley assumed this was a backhanded invitation to the holiday meal and was about to decline when Loralee continued. “Everyone will start arriving right after church, but Violet always serves the meal around one o’clock.”
“The dinner is at Aunt Violet’s house?”
She nodded. “Well, of course. I’m sure Violet has mentioned it.”
Presley was sure she hadn’t but kept this fact to herself. She was horrified at the thought of having to be polite and make small talk with strangers on Easter since holidays were particularly difficult.
It was as if Loralee read her mind. “It will be mostly people you’ve met—Cecelia and Mac and Wyatt. Sometimes Winston Jones comes, depending on his girlfriend situation at the time. Eugenia and George Ann will probably come this year since the Iversons are out of town.”
“I don’t cook,” Presley said. “I’ll be no help to Aunt Violet at all.”
Loralee laughed. “Tell her to let you start by learning how to make cornbread! Once you master that, you can move on to dressing. By Christmas you should be ready.”
Christmas. There was no telling where she would be then.
Again Loralee voiced her thoughts. “Of course, I probably won’t live until Christmas. Now come sit down and eat a piece of Italian cream cake.”
“I don’t eat dessert.”
“You need to put a little fat on those bones,” Loralee said. “If you don’t watch it, you’ll be a skeleton.”
Presley was startled by the choice of words, but there was no guile in Loralee’s expression.
“If you won’t eat cake, how about a little biscuit with some of my homemade blackberry jelly. You do eat jelly, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” Presley murmured.
“Miss Blanche taught me how to make jelly, and blackberry was her favorite.”
Loralee obviously wanted to tell her about the Armstrongs, but Presley just couldn’t make herself care about them. So she didn’t ask any leading questions, hoping the subject would change.
Loralee went right on anyway. “And you should have tasted Miss Blanche’s biscuits. They were so light you almost had to hold them down to keep them from floating in the air.”
Presley raised an eyebrow.
Loralee did not amend her statement. “Would you like a tour of their house? It’s just a little ways away, and Mac can pick you up there when he’s through collecting the boat.”
“Sure, I guess,” Presley said without enthusiasm.
“You’re going to love it!” Loralee promised. She headed for the door. When they passed Versie, she said, “I’m going to give Presley a tour of the old place. When Mac gets here, will you tell him he can pick her up there?”
“You be careful,” Versie admonished. She looked at Presley. “That place is an accident waiting to happen. Don’t fall through any rotten floorboards or get knocked in the head by falling rafters.”
“I’ll be on the lookout for both,” Presley promised. Then she followed Loralee outside.
They walked out the front door of the little cottage and up the brick walkway to the gate. It was a lovely spring day—bright sunshine and still a little cool after the rain from the day before. Instead of walking to the road, the way Presley had come in, they turned to the left and entered the woods along a well-worn path. The trees above them grew together, creating a roof of sorts. Parked by a stately old oak was a modern scooter chair.
“I don’t really need this,” Loralee said as she settled herself into the seat, “but I promised the boys I would use it, and I try not to lie.”
Presley almost smiled. Loralee was odd, but her honesty was refreshing. “The boys, you mean Mac and Wyatt and Patrick?”
“Yes. Have you met them all?”
“Not Patrick.”
She smiled. “Then you have a treat in store! All the boys are wonderful, but Patrick, now he’s special.”
And then Loralee buzzed off down the path on her scooter. Presley had to walk briskly to keep up. She was out of breath when finally they emerged from the woods into a large clearing with a little creek on one side and a house in the middle.
The house was almost completely covered by flowering vines. There were holes in the roof, and grass grew through the rotted boards on the porch. Most of the glass in the window panes was broken. Some shutters hung askew; others had fallen to the ground.
Presley turned to look at the creek.
“It’s a cove,” Loralee told her with delight. “There are several along the creek, but this is the biggest one.”
Presley nodded, her eyes moving around the property. There were a few outbuildings along the perimeter, and all were falling in on themselves.
Based on Loralee’s glowing descriptions, Presley had pictured something much different. She thought the house would be nicely preserved, cared for. It made Presley sad to see it, and she didn’t even know Blanche and DuPont Armstrong. Once this had been a thriving place, a farm and a home. Now it was a ruin. “It’s in terrible condition. Can it be fixed?” she asked.
Loralee looked up in surprise. “To me it just looks like Miss Blanche’s garden is protecting the house. Mac is going to restore it, but he can only work in his spare time, and his ex-wife makes sure he doesn’t have much of that. She gets a percentage of his income.” Loralee looked down.
“Divorces can be very difficult,” Presley said. “I’ve never handled them.”
“I’m glad. It would be a sad line of work.” She parked the scooter. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll show you around.”
Presley was hesitant. “Is it safe?”
“I’ve walked on these old floorboards a thousand times and never fallen through!” Loralee said. “But we’ll go in through the back, since the front porch is in the worst shape.”
She led the way to the back door and turned the knob. Loralee’s voice quivered a little as she said, “Every time I step through this door I get a feeling of peace and love. I believe Miss Blanche’s spirit is still here. That’s the only explanation for it.”
Presley followed the old woman inside, hoping the place wasn’t haunted. They crossed a closed-in porch. An ancient wash tub occupied one corner, and a scrub board took up the other. Both were covered with dust and cobwebs. The next room was a large kitchen. Presley looked at the wooden table and chairs, the old fashioned appliances, dishes, pots, and pans with awe.
“This stuff is valuable!” she said. “It should be in a museum or sold to an antique dealer. They’re being ruined by exposure to the elements and bugs and probably rats.”
Loralee shook her head. “We could never sell Miss Blanche’s things. Her spirit might leave if we did.”
Realizing that Loralee might not be as sane as she had previously thought, Presley stepped over a broken mason jar and followed the older woman into a wide hallway. To one side was a dining room, where a hole in the roof had already done considerable damage. The surface of the table was warped, and the chairs were overturned. The china cabinet was intact, but the dishes inside were broken and shining in the sunlight, fragments of a former time.
On the other side of the hallway were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The last room was a large open area. Loralee called it a sleeping porch. Frames of old cots, with scraps of canvas hanging off them leaned against the walls. Screens that had kept insects out and let a cool breeze in were gone except for a few stray wires.
“The upstairs is divided into two rooms as well,” Loralee explained. “It was an addition, done the same time as the new kitchen.” She waved a hand to encompass the whole ruin. “Now this all belongs to the boys.”
Presley looked around. It seemed hopeless to her. “What is Mac going to do first?”
“He’s going to shore up the foundation. Then he’ll start on the back porch and work his way forward.”
They walked back outside and sat on a fallen log by the road to wait for Mac.
“To pass the time I could tell you about Miss Blanche and how she came here.”
Obviously Loralee was determined, and they had nothing else to talk about, so Presley nodded.
Loralee smiled, rearranging the many wrinkles that lined her face. Her dress was tucked around her legs more like a child than a nearly hundred-year-old woman.
“All this land used to belong to my father. Then he became a drunkard, and Mr. DuPont bought it for the back taxes.”
“And you didn’t mind that DuPont bought your land?”
Loralee shrugged. “Somebody was going to get it, so it might as well be Mr. DuPont. I thought we’d have to leave, and we didn’t have anywhere to go. But Mr. DuPont let us move into the cottage, and I’ve been there ever since.” Loralee paused for a dreamy smile and then continued. “Mr. DuPont came on weekends with some of his college friends to fix up the place. I watched from the trees. After they’d leave, I’d collect the beer bottles they left behind. Old Mr. Pardee at the general store gave me a dollar for them.”
“The actual deposit was probably more than what he gave you.”
Loralee didn’t hold a grudge. “I was thankful to get the dollar.”
“You have the strangest way of looking at things.”
She smiled. “Mr. DuPont said I’m an optimist.”
And then some, Presley thought to herself.
“Since the money came from Mr. DuPont indirectly, I started working in the yard around the house to repay him. I cleared away weeds and transplanted wildflowers. About a week later they came back. Mr. DuPont walked around the house looking at the flowers I’d planted, scratching his head like he was trying to figure out how they could have grown while he was gone.” Loralee paused for a flurry of giggles. “This time they stayed for nearly a week. They put on a new roof and built an outhouse and a smokehouse.
“Then they used the leftover wood to build long benches and tables. At first I thought it was furniture for the house. But when they lined everything up in the yard, I realized they were meant to stay outside. And meant to feed a lot of people.” She stood up and demonstrated the placement of the tables.
“Again when the work was finished, the men celebrated with beer and then left. I collected the bottles and turned them in to Mr. Pardee.”
“And got another dollar?”
Loralee nodded. “I was rich!”
“When did DuPont come again?”
“A week later he arrived with three boats full of linens and dishes and furniture—fine things with carved legs and shiny polished surfaces, even a small piano. And so much food! There were barrels of flour and sugar, smoked hams and some chickens for fresh eggs. But he didn’t have any friends with him this time. Just people to drive the boats and a German immigrant couple he’d hired and their children, Peter and Irma.”
“I know you were disappointed there wouldn’t be a beer-drinking party to benefit your stash of dollars,” Presley teased.
“I was at first,” Loralee admitted. “But the furniture and food meant he would soon be moving in, and I figured that meant more parties in the future.”
“You are an optimist.”
She was too wrapped up in her story to comment on this. “Mr. DuPont looked at the flowers that were flourishing in the beds and then looked straight at the tree where I was sitting and tipped his hat. At the end of that weekend, Mr. DuPont left, but the Heinrichs stayed. They started building themselves a place to live”—she pointed in the direction of Aunt Violet’s property—“and worked around here. After everything inside the house was set up, they started roasting meat on a spit, making stew in a big black pot, and baking pies.
“Then Mr. DuPont returned with his boat and his beer-loving friends, but they were all sober this time. And they had some young ladies with them wearing lacy white dresses. They looked like angels as the boys carried them from the boat to the shore.
“Back in those days, it was considered improper for young ladies to be in the company of young men without chaperones. So Miss Blanche’s mama came along to supervise. Some of the girls got in the water, splashing and falling down. She looked on with disapproval. But Mr. DuPont was so handsome and charming he teased her into a good mood.”
Presley looked out at the sparkling water and tried to imagine it full of boisterous youth. “He was handsome and charming?”
“Oh, yes,” Loralee said. “His great-great-grandsons are a lot like him in different ways. Wyatt has red hair, Mac’s got his charm, and Patrick is irresistible.”
“Just like DuPont?”
Loralee nodded. “First the ladies went inside to freshen up. Then they all sat at the long tables for lunch. The Heinrichs’ daughter, Irma, helped serve. She was a pretty girl, and the ladies claimed her as a pet. One of them had an extra dress that they let Irma put on. Then they fixed her hair so she looked just like one of them. Irma loved it, but I thought it was cruel, letting her pretend to be something she wasn’t.”
There was a little edge to her voice, and Presley suspected that Loralee didn’t like Irma. Or maybe she had been jealous that the girl had been included in the party.
“After the meal some of the ladies took off their shoes, rolled up their stockings, and waded into the creek. Old Mrs. Monroe took her chaperone duties seriously and kept her eyes right on them. Mr. DuPont turned this to his advantage and took Miss Blanche to a spot down the creek bank a little ways where white orchids grow. I followed them, climbing from tree to tree.
“Miss Blanche said she’d never seen orchids growing wild. He picked one and put it behind her ear. He told her she was a rare beauty, like the flower. They were the prettiest words I had ever heard. And they were true. Miss Blanche was beautiful inside and out. Then he kissed her cheek.”
It was very romantic, and Presley’s heart started to hurt a little.
“She used the broach on her blouse to pin the flower over her heart, and it was plain to see that they loved each other. From that day forward, I never saw Miss Blanche without a flower pinned to her chest, even the last time I saw her, when she was lying in her coffin.”
Tears welled up in Presley’s eyes, and she felt foolish. These were people she didn’t even know, but Loralee made them seem so real. And the thought of Blanche wearing a token of her love for DuPont every day of her life was beyond sweet. She couldn’t imagine loving or being loved so much.
Loralee continued, “This time when they left, there were no beer bottles, which was a disappointment, but there was a box of food on the porch. That’s when I knew for sure that Mr. DuPont did see me up in the tree. Because it wasn’t just scraps; it was pulled pork and stew and pie, all neatly wrapped up and waiting for me.”
“He was thanking you for the improvements you’d made around his house.”
She nodded. “And I figured the food was an invitation to keep coming back. So I came every day and watered the flowers. Then I edged the little flowerbed with some smooth pebbles from the creek.
“The parties continued all through the summer. I kept working on the yard when the house was unoccupied and hid in the trees when Mr. DuPont and his guests were there. Each time they left, there was a box of food waiting for me on the porch. Toward the end of October, I was sitting on the steps, going through the box they’d left, when Mr. DuPont stepped out of the woods right over there.” She pointed to a spot where the trees parted.
“He just pretended to leave and then circled back and caught you?” Presley guessed.
Loralee nodded. “He told me there wouldn’t be any more parties during the winter, and he wanted to make sure I’d be okay until spring. He said he’d bring supplies when he could, but it was a long, lonely winter.”
“In the spring he came back?”
She nodded. “His boat pulled up while I was transplanting some of the wild orchids to a flowerbed right by the porch. He was upset when he saw what I was doing. He said that orchids were very delicate and wouldn’t be able to survive the move to a new location. I told him I’d transferred all kinds of flowers and never killed a one of them. And I said that orchids were stronger than they look and promised him that they’d still be growing there long after he was dead.” Her eyes drifted back toward the house. “And it’s true.”
Presley stared at the little patch of wild orchids growing near the front porch. They had been there for almost a hundred years.
“He didn’t look convinced about the orchids, but he didn’t mention them again. Instead he told me that soon Miss Blanche would be coming back, this time as his bride, and that she might need a girl to help around the house.”
“And you became that girl?”
“I did,” Loralee confirmed. “Miss Blanche arrived the second week in June. She’d had a beautiful church wedding and a honeymoon at Myrtle Beach. That’s in South Carolina.” Loralee’s lips parted, and she said reverently, “I always hoped I’d see it before I died.”
“Maybe you could still go?” Presley said hopefully.
Loralee shook her head. “I’ll never leave here.”
“I’m sorry.” It seemed so sad that Loralee had been dreaming about a place all her life and would never see it.
“Don’t feel bad for me,” Loralee said with a smile. “I’ve been blessed to live my life in the best place on earth. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here at Orchid Cove—not even Myrtle Beach.”
Presley smiled back. “So Blanche arrived as a new bride, and they lived happily ever after?”
“They were happy, but life wasn’t always easy,” Loralee replied. “Old Mrs. Monroe was here for almost a month. She showed me how to cook and clean and run a proper house. She planted an herb garden and taught me how to treat illnesses with plants. But finally it was time for her to go home. She called me aside just before she left and told me that Miss Blanche had weak lungs. It was asthma, but they didn’t know the name for it then. She asked me to watch out for her and keep her from working too hard. I caught Miss Blanche crying after her mother left. She asked me not to tell Mr. DuPont. She said it wasn’t that she didn’t want to be his wife. She just missed her mother. I certainly knew how that felt. I’d missed my mother my whole life.”
“My mother died a year ago.” The words were out before Presley could stop them. “I still miss her so much.”
Loralee reached over and patted her hand. “You’ll always miss her, but time does help a little.”
Presley cleared her throat. “So Miss Blanche adjusted to life without her mother?”
“Oh, yes, she did fine for several weeks. Then, for no reason, she had a bad spell. I didn’t leave the house until she got her strength back. While I sat by her bed, she taught me to read using the Bible. When she got well, we canned vegetables and visited sick folks together. I even helped her deliver a baby. Then the summer ended, and they started packing up. I never dreamed that they had another, much bigger, nicer house in town, but they did. This was just a summer place. I watched them leave and thought my heart would break.”
“Once again everything was quiet and lonely here.”
“Yes. But now it was worse. I knew them better, loved them more, and so I missed them terribly. They sent supplies during the winter like before and came back when the weather got warm. That’s how it went for the next few years. The winters were dark and lonely, but I always knew that summer was just around the corner.”
They heard the rumble of a truck in the distance.
“That will be Mac,” Loralee predicted. A few seconds later, the tow truck appeared over the hill.
Presley watched the tow truck approach with an odd combination of emotions. When Loralee started the story, Presley was just enduring it, but by the end, she didn’t want it to be over. Mac parked and jumped down from his truck.
As they walked over to greet him, the old woman looked tired. It seemed that sharing the story had sapped her strength.
Mac greeted Loralee warmly. She pointed at the nice boat on the back. “It’s a shame that whoever bought that couldn’t pay for it.”
“Yeah, he wasn’t happy about it either.”
Presley noticed a new cut near his lip that was swollen and oozing blood. He caught her eye and shook his head slightly. She knew he didn’t want her to draw attention to it in front of Loralee.
“We’ve been talking about DuPont and Blanche,” Presley said.
“Oh, then you’ve been well entertained.”
Loralee looked back at the house. “It’s always hard for me to leave them, you know.”
“I know. Why don’t I help you up into the truck?” he suggested. “We’ll put your scooter in back, and I’ll drive you home.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I’d rather stay with Miss Blanche for a while longer.”
Mac didn’t argue. “Just don’t stay out here too long. You know Miss Versie worries.”
Mac helped Presley into the truck and they drove away. Presley turned in her seat so that she could see the lone figure sitting on the steps of the dilapidated house for as long as possible.
“Do you think she’ll be okay?” Presley asked as Loralee disappeared from view.
He frowned. “I hope so, but if she dies there at Blanche’s house . . . Well, she’ll be in heaven before her heart stops beating.”