Page 7 of Buried Roots

Mary Louise cuts the engine before hopping out of the truck. She bustles over to me with a pie, saying, “I’m Mary Louise Smith. It’s so nice to meet you…” she trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.

“Willow.” I smile, then add, “Dawson,” as she keeps staring.

“I’m your other next-door neighbor.” She points down the road, in the opposite direction of Frankie’s house. “I just want to welcome you to Lilac Lane, Ms. Dawson.” Mary Louise hands me the pie belonging on the cover of a Southern cooking magazine, with bursting ripe apples enveloped in a crust, browned to perfection.

“Wow, thank you. This looks incredible.” I take it, excited to have a small piece after dinner.

“It’s my famous apple pie.” Mary Louise smiles, her bright red lipstick spreading up her face. “I also wanted to let you know that me and my husband, Bill, would love to help you get up to speed in this place.” Her eyes dart to Frankie as she lets out a nervous giggle. “After you graduate Frankie’s training program, of course.”

“That’d be great, thank you,” I say, glancing at Frankie. She’s giving Mary Louise the side-eye, and my gut tells me to trust Frankie’s judgment.

“Wonderful.” Mary Louise clasps her hands together, her bright red nails glowing against her pale skin. Then she reaches into her polka-dotted purse for something. “Here’s my card,” she says, handing it to me. “Call if you need anything at all.”

I meet Frankie’s gaze, and she shoots me a look that says, “Let me handle this,” so I give her a nod. Then Frankie says, “Mary Louise, Willow’s gonna need a day or two to get her bearings—I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course I do. Well, I gotta git—I’m off to bake some more pies for the Brew and Chew Festival. The Fourth of July is in two days—boy, that came lickety split. Ms. Dawson, you should come and meet the folks of Violet Moon. Celebrate the Fourth.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Oh, it’s a hoot and a half.”

When Mary Louise hops in the truck and buzzes away, I exhale.

Frankie bends and plucks a weed out of the ground. “So, you going to restore this place?”

I walk toward her carefully, not wanting my pie to tip. “I’d love that, but I restore apartments, not mansions.” Andcertainlynot farms.

“Makes sense.”

I suck in a shaky breath, managing a smile. It could help turn my business around…ifI succeeded. If I didn’t, I’d likely lose everything. I simply say, “It would be a dream creatively but a potential money pit otherwise.”

She slaps her palms together, brushing off the dirt. “Too bad. This old girl could use a lift.”

“I wish I could stay.” I like it here, and I can’t believe I just thought that. I never imagined a place would have such an instantaneous impact on me—it’s so beautiful and peaceful. And the air is so fresh with a sweet vanilla smell of something, I wish I knew what. But it seems familiar.

“Things happen for a reason.” Frankie folds her arms across her chest. “A fifty-acre farm falling into your lap—it’s a cryin’ shame not to use your skills on something so special.”

“Yeah.” I swallow hard, something unfamiliar tugging at my heart. “It really is.”

3

House and Home

AssoonasFrankie’sgone, I make my way into the house, putting Mary Louise’s pie in the refrigerator before beelining it to the framed eight by ten professional wedding photo of a twenty-something Bo and Lily—whom I recognize from their obituary pictures. I take it off the wall, flipping it over to see the words, “Lily and Bo Underwood. Married March 18th, 1967″ scribbled on it. Lily was pretty—tiny-framed, blond-haired, blue eyes, and milk-skinned with a round face.

I study them to see if they have a familial resemblance to me. Unsure, I bring the photo to the bathroom where I hold it up next to me in the mirror.

Lily’s cheekbones seem like mine. I tilt my head sideways, the way her head is. Then I smile like she’s smiling, and I think we have the same nostrils.

“I have Lily’s facial features.” My real smile blooms across my face.

A buzz skitters across my skin, warming me as I brush a finger over the photo. In my twenty-six years, I’ve never met a soul who had any genetic relation to me. And now, to think I’ve possibly found two. It’s overwhelming and amazing at the same time—the raw, hollow spaces inside me filling with crackling white light. I swallow back the scratch in my throat as I force myself to return the photo to the wall. I think it’s really them—my aunt and uncle. Bo stands ramrod straight, just like I do.

I reel myself in. I vowed not to get my hopes up, although Bo didn’t leave me a fifty-acre estate for nothing. But still. I need to let it go until I have the results of the DNA tests. I should be getting them anytime—it said five to seven business days, and it’s been five. I need to busy my mind with other things.

It’s time to feed the goats.

With Fig Newtons stuffed in my back pocket to snack on, I’m in the barn rummaging through every crevice, mumbling, “Feed, feed, feed,” but only find cleaning supplies and tools. A scraping on the window makes me jump. “What was that?”

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