Page 66 of New River Gorge(ous)
She extends a hand, and I reach mine out to shake hers, but she pulls her hand away.
“No, silly boy,” June says. “Here.” She stands and thumps down the hallway. I wait for her, but she calls, “Come, Beckett.”
I follow her into her room. The gauzy curtains let in light, the neatly made bed in the middle of the room has an old and faded wedding ring patterned quilt, and there are piles of booksand notecards spread throughout the room. Sticky notes are on the walls with messages. I know enough to know that these are a sign of some cognitive decline, and it breaks my heart.
“Here you go, young man.” June turns from the dresser and extends her hand to me. There, set on her wrinkled, leathery hand, is a gold band with a single teardrop-shaped ruby. June shakes a little as she gazes down at the jewelry, and I can see how special this ring is to her.
“Miss June,” I say, reaching out and picking the ring off her palm. “It’s beautiful.”
More words aren’t needed for June to open up about this, and when she tells me the story, I’m glad she did.
“Does Brooke know this story?” I ask.
“No,” June replies. “I’ve been saving the ring and the story for her, but now…” She breaks off and looks at the window for a moment before turning her attention back to me. “Now I’m not sure I’ll be able to remember it when the time comes.”
If my heart was broken before, it’s shattered now. June MacCord is many things to me. Mostly, she’s been an annoying neighbor, but I see her in a different light. I see her as the older, eccentric woman who is determined to live her life to the fullest as she senses her abilities changing. A woman who loves fiercely and has wisdom that I can only dream of, because it’s not the sort of thing you learn from books. No, June’s wisdom is the sort of thing you learn from a hard life and trust in God’s grace.
“Miss June,” I whisper, meeting her gaze. “Thank you. I will keep the story and tell it to her when it’s time.” A post-it note flutters in the breeze, and an idea takes hold. “Do you think you might like to write the story down? I could hold on to it and give it to her with the ring when the time is right.”
June smiles broadly. “That is an excellent idea.”
I swallow against the emotion clogging my throat. “Did you make an appointment? With the specialist I recommended?”
June’s eyes close. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to take you?”
June’s eyes shine with emotion. She nods. “I think it will be hard for Brooke if the…” She swallows. “If the news isn’t good.”
I bob my head, and June’s blue eyes shine with tears. It won’t be hard for just Brooke. June will need someone with her too. I open my arms to her, and she steps into them for a grandmotherly hug.
I don’t know when I started seeing June MacCord as more than my nosy old neighbor, but I know I’ll be with her through this.
Meemaw
June MacCord knows her memory isn’t what it once was. She also knows that her neighbor and her granddaughter are destined for each other. When Beckett’s mother appeared on June’s doorstep, she knew how serious things were. Women like Natasha Whistler are infamous even among the older generation.
Yes, June overstepped with her social media posts, but that’s been taken down, and a message posted that apologized for the confusion. Now June sits at the table, waiting for her neighbor to drive her and her granddaughter to the specialist. A card is tucked into an envelope bearing the name “the future Mrs. Brooke Whistler,” and that envelope is tucked in her bag.
Brooke is blow-drying her hair in the bathroom, and the soft hum of noise is loud enough that when Beck knocks on the door, Brooke won’t hear him.
June drums her fingers along the oak table while she waits.
A soft knock at the door, and June springs into action. She opens the door and smiles into the warm brown eyes of the man who will soon be her grandson. “Beckett.”
“Miss June,” he says, sweeping his worn gray baseball cap off his head and walking through the threshold.
“I have this for you,” she whispers conspiratorially as she extends the envelope to him.
He takes it with slightly shaky hands, and June has a glimpse of nerves that make her giddy. This man is perfect for her granddaughter because while the man himself is not perfect, the mancares.
Loud music sounds from the road as a delivery truck drives by. Obnoxious beeps startle the older woman and the younger man from their moment as their heads turn toward the road.
“Did you order something?” the younger man asks.
June shrugs.
The truck continues backing up the steep driveway until it’s close to the walkway. A man in a brown delivery uniform hops out and strolls across the path with a clipboard in hand.
