Chapter Twenty-Six

WHAT DOES A PERSON DO AT A GRAVESIDE? Or after a funeral? At home, back in Philadelphia, I’d cooked and baked for Mama’s funeral luncheon. I’d served and welcomed and thanked people for coming—church members and strangers, businesspeople connected to my father. I’d washed every pot and pan until the church had emptied, putting off tears as long as I could. Then I’d fallen asleep in the pew. And then I’d heard my husband’s plans, my father’s disowning, and had run away.

I wanted to run away again when they began tossing handfuls of dirt on Aunt Hyacinth’s coffin. I hated the thud, thud, thud. I wanted to scream, “Open it up! She can’t be gone!” But I didn’t, and of course she was. So I waited until they’d all said what they thought they should, what they needed to, what gave them peace, and left. I stood by the graveside for a time, remembering, trying to summon her presence, but it was no longer there. Finally I turned and, like everybody else, left Aunt Hyacinth’s shell alone in the ground.

Reverend Willard waited for me a few steps away.

“I’m so sorry for this loss, Lilliana. Miz Hyacinth was—” He couldn’t seem to go on.

“She was your friend, Reverend Willard. And you were hers. Thank you for that.”

“I’ll miss her,” he said, sounding small, like a lost child. He coughed to regain his voice and tried to straighten.

I shook my head. It was no use pretending to be strong when you didn’t feel it. I, of all people, knew that. I pressed his hand and walked away, just wanting to be alone.

Gladys and the children had waited by the church. We walked together back to Garden’s Gate in silence. I was thankful that they didn’t speak, thankful that I did not feel the need.

Opening the front door was like opening a vault. The house that had been so sunny with its front parlor, now a children’s reading room, did not seem cheerful—only hollow. I tightened my lips, unable to think on any of that now, and headed up the stairs to my room.

“I’ll fix some lunch, Lilliana, and have Celia bring it up . . . unless you want to join us down here.”

I knew Gladys meant well, but the thought of food turned my stomach. “Please don’t bother with me, Gladys. You go ahead.”

“You need to eat something. You know—”

But I continued upstairs and closed my bedroom door. I didn’t want anything, didn’t know anything, didn’t need anything, couldn’t talk. Aunt Hyacinth was gone. Who was I in No Creek without her? Without Aunt Hyacinth to help me shape my new world, I couldn’t imagine.

All I knew was that there was a ragged hole in my heart. A hole that could not be filled with Gladys’s food or Celia’s questions or Chester’s smiles. It couldn’t even be filled with teaching Marshall to read—as if that were still possible—or with fighting the likes of Rhoan Wishon on Ruby Lynne’s behalf.

Empty. I felt empty, depleted of all that I was or had tried to become while remaining busy and purposeful in the restoration of Garden’s Gate and the building of the library. It had all been to please Aunt Hyacinth and help those she loved—and perhaps as a memorial for my mother, who’d left here so young, and a project for people in need whom I was coming to care for. Now Mama and Aunt Hyacinth were both gone and the community was at odds with me. It all seemed futile.

The noon light came and went. Downstairs I heard a continual jingle of the front door library bell. The fragrance of a feast of casseroles and cakes wafted up the stairs and beneath my door. I figured custom had trumped anger. Still, I wanted to stuff something below the crack to keep the nauseating smells out.

The afternoon light faded. Dusk came on and the tree outside my window changed to silhouette. A knock came at my door.

“Miss Lill? Mama sent me up with a tray of food. Open the door, please?”

I didn’t rise from my bed, kept my face buried in my pillow and turned toward the window. “I’m not hungry, Celia. Please tell your mama not to bother with me. You all go on and eat.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lill, but my mama won’t stand for that. She says not to bring this tray downstairs till it’s empty. Please, let me in.”

The sigh within felt like it might swallow me. But I knew Gladys, and she’d not let Celia off the hook until she’d done her bidding. So I got to my feet, switched on the bedside lamp, and opened the door. Before I could take the tray, Celia pushed in, chattering a mile a minute.

“Thank you, Miss Lill. You know Mama. She won’t take no for an answer, never could as far as I know. Wants you to eat every bite. Says you’ve got to keep your strength up. You’re the Belvidere woman now.”

That felt like a punch to my stomach.

“You might not like hearing that—” Celia looked me straight in the eye—“but we need you. We need a Belvidere at Garden’s Gate.”

The cold truth of Celia’s words poked my spine and straightened it just a little. To be needed . . . to be wanted . . . And I was a Belvidere—not the Belvidere my aunt had been, but a Belvidere just the same. The last of the Belvidere women. What does that mean?

“So you gonna eat now?” Celia set the tray on my dressing table.

“I can’t, Celia. I’m not hungry.”

“I can’t go downstairs till—”

“Then you eat it.”

Celia’s eyes widened.

It was the perfect solution. I pulled the pot lid off the plate and felt my own eyes go wide. Smoked ham, pot roast beef, stewed carrots and onions and scalloped tomatoes in a dish, two kinds of pie, and a cup of steaming coffee beside. “I’ll never eat all this! Where did it come from?” Where did these poor people get all this food? Nearly every family in No Creek lives on small or no wages and hard times.

“Folks thought a lot of Miz Hyacinth. She taught most everybody in No Creek over the years. And now—with you—she opened the library. They want to honor her . . . so they do for you. Folks here do that with food . . . and sometimes ’shine.”

Food and moonshine. Their best gifts, their only gifts. Gravel rose in my throat and lodged there. I’d felt so invisible, so lost and lonely and alone.

But the truth was, I wasn’t alone, not here. Here was community that included me—even now that they knew I was a runaway married woman. They weren’t afraid to show their curiosity or their disapproval, but they didn’t lie about it. Despite Rhoan Wishon’s drunken feud and the hatefulness of Mrs. Richards, here were people to stand with and people to stand up to—in the open, not behind closed doors with secrets.

Celia, Chester, and Gladys were my family now, Garden’s Gate my home . . . my home.

“Maybe we can eat it together,” Celia ventured, her eyes a little hopeful.

How could I not smile at that face? “Maybe we can.”

I picked up the silverware beside the plate, not sure what to do. There was one fork and a knife. But that didn’t deter Celia. She grinned, pulling a spoon from her dungarees pocket.