Page 3 of Mind Games

Because she wanted to feel like she was really here, she unpacked even when she heard Rem run back downstairs.

After she put her clothes away, the room became hers.

Downstairs, she took her time. The living room, then the parlor with its old TV and its much, much older big radio. The easy chair and divan, the books on shelves, the basket of yarn, the cuckoo clock on the wall.

Then the room with the upright piano, the banjo, the guitar, the mandolin, the dulcimer.

Grammie could pick up any of those if she had the mood and play. She knew Waylon could do the same, not only because Grammie said so, but he always brought a banjo or guitar to play at Christmastime.

Plus, he made his living playing them in Nashville, where he lived. Caleb could play, too, but he’d gone to college to study theater and acting and stuff, so he did that.

Her mom played sometimes, but Gram said Cora’s instrument was her voice. And Thea knew that for truth, as her mom—especially when she was happy—sang like an angel.

But in the whole house, the kitchen was her favorite.

It was massive—one of her current favorite words. Big enough for the kitchen table Gram’s grandpappy had built out of solid oak. It had a six-burner stove Gram bought when she’d made some changes, but she wouldn’t part with the table.

She called it the heart of her kitchen, and her kitchen the heart of her home. She had lots of cupboards and long, long counters, a whole wall of shelves holding pots and cookbooks of family recipes and glass jars of rice and oats and pasta and grits, beans, colorful jars of pickled beets and chowchow and peppers and apple butter and more.

Open to it, the craft kitchen with its big stove had sturdy work counters and shelves holding bottles and jars and tools. Grammie grew herbs in pots in the sunny windows and had more hanging to dry.

There she made her candles, her soaps, her lotions and medicinals for her business.

In what had been a pantry, Grammie kept a supply of what she’d made, in case she wanted to give a gift, or somebody came down from the hills to barter.

Always curious, Thea opened the door and breathed it all in as she looked at the shelves.

To her, it smelled like a garden planted in heaven.

Roses and lavender, rosemary and sage, heliotrope and pine, lemon and orange and fresh mown grass.

Grammie called her business Mountain Magic, and that’s how Thea thought of it.

She saw the apple stack cake still wrapped on the counter, so she’d keep room for dessert after fried chicken.

Outside, Rem already ran around with the dogs, while her parents and Grammie sat on the back porch with their apple wine.

Through the open windows she could hear the dogs barking, the chickens clucking, her grandmother’s laugh.

She made a picture of it in her head, one she could take out sometime when she felt lonely or sad about something.

“There’s that girl,” Lucy said when Thea came out. “Get yourself some lemonade before Rem sucks that pitcher dry. Being a boy of ten’s thirsty work.”

“Needs to run off being cooped up in the car.” Smiling, Cora reached over, brushed a hand down Thea’s arm. “All settled in?”

“Uh-huh. Can I go see the animals?”

“Sure you can.”

“A little later, you and Rem can give them their evening meal. Go on.” Lucy gave her a little pat on the butt. “Stretch those long legs. We’ll call when it’s time for supper.

“Growing like weeds,” Lucy murmured when Thea raced off. “Both of them. I’m so grateful you give them over to me for this time every summer.”

“They love you.” John reached for the jug, topped off their wine. “They love it here. And, I can’t lie, two weeks alone with my bride?” He winked at Cora. “That’s a gift.”

“And they’ll come home with half a million stories.” Cora leaned back in her rocking chair, relaxed as the travel fatigue, and the faint headache that came with it, drained away. “The fox the dogs chased away from the chicken coop, the fish they caught or almost caught, milking the cow, milking the goat, the old man leaning on his walking stick who came by for some ointment for his arthritis.”

“And,” John added, “they’ll bring home soap you helped them make, and ask why we never have buckwheat cakes for breakfast.”

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