Page 39 of New River Gorge(ous)
“How did you know Pappaw was the one?”
“Ah.” Meemaw quirks her head to the side, and her gray chignon bobs as she reads my face like one reads a book. “You’ve moved on from thinking of happily ever afters are guaranteed and are now hopeless about love?”
I shrug. “Yes. Maybe? I don’t know if I’m hopeless right now.”
“But you were?”
“Maybe. I think...” I scrunch my eyes closed and admit the truth. “I think I’m scared.”
“Sweetie. Love is a lot of things—attraction, sure, but mostly it’s a choice. Willing the good of the other and finding someone who wills your good. When you both want what’s best for the other and are willing to sacrifice your own happiness for them, that’s when you know.”
“But how did you know?”
“Well, Johnny and I didn’t know each other long. We tended to rush into things back then. Maybe it’s just all youth who do that, but it was a different time. We got married on a Tuesday, because that was the only time Johnny’s supervisor would let him off early. I knew when he came to the house to ask my daddy if he could take me for a soda that this was a different kind of man. And in those days, the men weren’t always so manly as to own up to their actions. Maybe this will shock you, but I was pregnant. Johnny didn’t care that some man had tried to ruin my life. I was stubborn enough to not let that scum ruin it, mind you.”
“Mom?” I ask, surprised to hear that Pappaw wasn’t my biological grandfather.
“No, honey, another baby that was adopted by a good family in that county. Johnny and I left the area and came here after that. Too much pain for me there. Sweetie, not many men would look at a woman back then who was unwed and with child, but Johnny saw me call that man out at a dance, and he liked my spirit. He made it his mission to provide for me, and if I hadn’t felt adoption was the right choice for that baby, he would have cared for him too.”
“Does Mom know?” I ask. She’s never mentioned anything about a brother.
“I’m not sure, sweetie. We didn’t talk about it much. Now, though, that I’m older, I wish I had.” She sips her lemonade, then puts the glass down on the table next to the swing. “The point is, good men exist, and good men are worth it. And I’vemet more than my fair share of the bad ones. So you go ahead and get to know”—she adopts a low voice and tries to make herself sound like our next-door neighbor—“Doctor Beckett Whistler. He’s a good man, and that shouldn’t scare you. That should thrill you.”
21
Beck
I’ve had hard nights at work before, but last night takes the cake.
My fingers cramp as I grip the steering wheel and take the turn into the driveway. I couldn’t spend a single second more at the hospital, so I forewent my usual shower. I don’t know if day shifts will be easier, and while I don’t put any stock into the old ‘full moon’ theory of crazy behavior, at least when I finally move to days, I won’t have to deal with men who climb on top of their vehicles to howl at the full moon after too many adult beverages, and then fall off said vehicle. Which results in a trip to the E.R., where I get to check for concussions and broken bones and discover that their BAC is 0.24%.
The truth is that some days, I’m justdone. Some days, I wonder why I didn’t choose a safer career, like being an accountant. Sitting quietly behind a computer screen all day—ruining my eyes slowly, to be sure, but ruining themquietly. That sounds like a dream right now.
My day off is tomorrow, and I’m relieved. When I’m hanging on by a thread and about to drop off over the cliff of burnout, aday off is exactly what this doctor ordered. I know I need good sleep, a warm meal, and lots of rest.
I mentally flip through the next twenty-four hours. Since tomorrow is Sunday, I’ll be able to attend Mass at my favorite church. Although I go every week, I have to vary where I go based on my work schedule.
I blow out a breath. Rest and Mass together make for a perfect weekend.
My eyes involuntarily track to June’s house. I think June is Methodist, but I have no idea if Brooke practices faith. I’d like to know that, but I don’t know if I can ask her outright. I do know that there is one way to find out, and it involves the little old church ladies my grandma is friends with. Those women have a better secret communication system than the U.S. Armed Forces during a war. It baffles me how they know everything about everyone. It is not uncommon for one of them to call me up after a particularly difficult shift and ask mehowso-and-so is doing after seeing me in the E.R. last night.
I never divulge patient information—because I would prefer to not get sued for malpractice and breach of contract and a million other things—but the fact that theyknowis enough to be disconcerting.
A flash of pink catches my vision as I veer into my part of the driveway, leaving the shared portion behind. Brooke straightens to her full height from where she was crouching down by my ancient front door.
A smile flits over her face as she sees me and tosses her hair over her shoulder. I throw the truck into park and hop out.
“Hey,” she says, walking toward me.
“Hi,” I mutter, unsure of what she could possibly have been doing on my porch. My expression must give me away because she quirks her brow.
“Meemaw sent me over. She insisted I drop off a tray of fried chicken for you.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “She sat on a chair in the kitchen and heckled me the entire time I was making it.”
“You made it?” I ask, already looking around for the tray of chicken and trying to catch a whiff of the lingering scent in the air. There isn’t any smell, and as I look over the railing of my porch, there isn’t anything on the porch either. “Where is it?”
Brooke looks at the ground. “Meemaw told me to use the spare key to put it on warm in your oven.”
I did give June a spare key when I was näive and neighborly with her when I first moved in. I’m not worried about physical safety when it comes to June having access to my house; it’s more the principle of the thing. Annoyed at myself for giving June a key and also annoyed at not being annoyed that Brooke was in my house without my knowledge, I have to ask the question. “What were you doing when I came up the driveway? I’m not stupid enough to keep a key under my welcome mat.”
