Within the half hour, the seven of them, not counting Matilda, sat down at Harley’s dining room table for a noon meal, a smorgasbord of lasagna, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Hardees cheeseburgers, pinto beans, cornbread, and a vintage Merlot also courtesy of Eric Winston.
Opha Mae Shaw arrived in time for dessert, offering a case of piña colada wine coolers and a pack of Virginia Slims, which she added to Wilma’s collection of expired Little Debbies and Twinkies. The Little Debbies and Twinkies remained untouched until Matilda, some hours later, raided the kitchen and carried them back to her little house.
When everyone had left, and Harley and Wilma had finished wiping down the kitchen, Wilma said it was time for her great-niece to write thank-you notes for the presents she had received in the hospital.
“I’m not sure anyone’s really expecting that after what happened.” Harley dried a dish and placed it in the cupboard. “I mean, I did almost die.”
Wilma cocked her index finger in the air. “This is the South. You always send a thank-you note. Always. Even if you’re dead, you still find a way to send one.”
“How would you do that?”
Wilma rolled her eyes. “Why, through a psychic, of course.” She plopped a box of cards and envelopes on the table in front of Harley. “And I even got you your own stationery. Monogrammed.”
“Monogrammed?”
“Of course, it’s monogrammed. You don’t use nothin’ but monogrammed.” Wilma glared at Harley, narrowing her eyes. “Are you sure you’re really a Southerner? Are you sure I helped raise you?”
And so they commenced, Wilma going through the table full of gifts in the living room and Harley scribbling messages of appreciation on her stationery. They had worked their way through most of the gifts when Wilma paused, looking down at the table, a perplexed expression on her face. “Now, where’d this one come from? Don’t believe I saw it there before.”
Wilma lifted the gift from the table, and Harley surveyed the rectangular, flat package, wrapped in plain brown parchment and tied with kitchen twine. “I remember it being at the hospital. It must’ve gotten buried under the others.”
Wilma handed the present to Harley. “Well, why don’t you open it already?”
Harley returned to her seat and rested the package in her lap, carefully removing the paper from what was clearly a book. A flash of green emerged from the parchment, then a little boy raising his arms to a tree.
Harley placed her hand over her mouth. The Giving Tree. She opened the inside cover and ran her finger down the page, finding the inscription she couldn’t believe was there.
To my darling baby girl,
My sweet angel love,
Our giving tree.
Love you always,
Mama
But how? That book had been destroyed by Kevin Grazely and Spider Buttle, she was sure, destroyed all those years ago when they’d invaded the Johnsons’ backyard and had stolen it from her, tearing out the pages, throwing it in the mud puddle.
But there it was. Restored. She fanned through the pages, studying with amazement what an excellent job the restorers had done. It must have cost a fortune.
A note fell from the spine and landed in Harley’s lap.
Come to Briarcliffe, it read.