Page 48 of Nineteen Letters
“I wish you’d have something to eat before you leave, Jemma,” Christine says when we enter the kitchen. “I don’t like the idea of you going out with an empty stomach.”
“I’m fine,” Jemma says, placing a kiss on her mother’s cheek before scooping a basket off the kitchen table. “We have this, remember?” Her gaze moves to me. “I packed us a picnic lunch. Like we used to have by the river at Ma and Pa’s farm.”
I’m grinning as I take the basket out of her hand. Today already feels like old times.
“This place is beautiful,” Jemma says as we pass through the small town and head towards the rolling green hills of the countryside. It hasn’t changed in the past few years. “It’s so green … so picturesque. I can see why my grandparents chose to never leave.”
“They loved it here. This is where your grandfather grew up. Ma moved here after they were married.”
“Tell me about them, Braxton. I only know what you’ve told me in the letters. Christine never talks about them.”
“They were amazing people … truly amazing. I don’t know how they met, but I’m sure your mother can fill you in on that story. I know Ma was a city girl before she married. She loved her life here with Pa.”
“I wish I could remember them.”I wish she could remember me, and how much we loved each other.“What happened to them? How long ago did they die?”
I knew that question would come up today. There’s no good way to answer it.
“Your Pa died first,” I say, glancing her way. “It was unexpected and very sudden.”
She’s hesitant with her reply. “How?”
“He had a heart attack in the orchard. When he didn’t come up to the house for lunch Ma went searching for him and found him lying beneath one of the apple trees. She tried to resuscitate him. The coroner said he’d been dead for over an hour by the time she found him.”
I see her hand come up to cover her mouth, as her head turns away from me. “Poor Ma,” I hear her whisper. Poor Ma is right. Pa’s death broke her, and what happened in the days that followed proved that.
The tyres crunch as I turn off the main road and head down the long gravel driveway that leads to the farmhouse. The branches of the large jacaranda trees that line both sides of the driveway overlap in the middle forming a kind of archway. It’s such a shame they aren’t in bloom; the sea of purple flowers that cover the trees when they are, and the blanket they create on the ground when the flowers fall, really is a sight to see. Jemma loved that so much. I hope I get the chance to bring her back in spring so she can experience it again.
When we reach the end of the driveway, the farmhouse comes into view. It’s been three years since I’ve been back here, but the place hasn’t changed much. The gardens aren’t as colourful and lush as they once were, but just being here makes me smile. Ma loved her garden and would potter around out here for hours while Pa was working the land out back. Thisplace holds so many wonderful memories for me, as it once did for Jemma.
“Are you okay?” I ask, placing my hand on Jemma’s leg as I turn off the ignition.
“Yes,” she replies, turning her face towards me. She smiles, but I can tell it’s forced.
“Losing them both was a terrible time for us all.”
“I can imagine.”
“This is their farmhouse,” I say, pointing out the front windscreen. “Do you want to have a look around?”
“Are we allowed? Does someone else live here?”
“No. Your grandparents left this place to your mother in their will.”
Christine hasn’t been back since Ma’s death, but she won’t sell it. She’s scarred by what happened the last time she was here, but this place was her home once. It’s all she has left of her parents, and I know she’ll never part with it.
I thought about asking Christine for the keys to get inside, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Just having Jem here is an enormous step forward. I tried for months to get Jemma to come back here after Ma’s death, but she flat out refused.
We walk down the front path towards the house—her eyes are everywhere as we step onto the wide wraparound veranda. Ma and Pa always sat out here of an evening. In the summer months, they would sit side by side drinking iced tea, and Ma would make homemade lemonade for me and Jem. On colder nights, they would sit under the multi-coloured blankets Ma crocheted. Jem and I had our own blankets as well.
“They were Ma’s and Pa’s rocking chairs,” I say as she runs her hand over the back of one. “We used to sit on that swinging chair down there.” I turn my body slightly and point to the far end of the veranda where the long wooden bench seat hangs from the roof by large chains. “Or occasionally we’d lie out on thegrass and look up at the stars.” I give her a moment to absorb it all before I speak again. “Come check out the view from the back of the house. You can see over the entire orchard from up here.”
“Okay.”
She smiles when I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her in that direction. When we reach the rear of the house, she comes to a sudden stop.
“Wow.” I’m pretty sure I wore the same look of amazement the first time I came here. She takes a few steps forward and her hands grip the rail as her eyes take it all in. Not only can you see the rows of perfectly aligned apple trees, but also the rolling green hills nestled in the distance behind them. The view from up here is nothing short of postcard-worthy. “It’s breathtaking.”
“It is,” I reply, but unlike her, I’m not talking about the landscape. My eyes are firmly fixed on her.
