leans over and pats her hand. “Every man wants a son, honey, but I wouldn’t trade either of my girls for ten Brix Juniors.”
When Zell comes downstairs next morning, she finds her sister in the breakfast room. A roll of red ribbon lies beside a half-eaten biscuit and Sue is filling small paper bags from a bowl of hard Christmas candies. Zell pours herself a cup of coffee and joins her at the table.
“Who are those for?” she asks.
With Ash hovering at Zell’s elbow all day yesterday, there had been no chance for Sue to talk to her alone. “Promise you won’t tell Mother or Dad?”
Zell listens wide-eyed while Sue tells how she pulled two small boys out of Possum Creek. “You could have drowned yourself. I knew we shouldn’t have let you go out there alone.”
“Then come with me this morning. I want to see if they’re okay and I thought I’d take them some candy. I doubt if their father does much for Christmas.”
Yet even as she says it, she remembers how eagerly those little boys had run to him and how he’d scooped them both up in his arms. She cuts lengths of the ribbon and begins to tie bows on the eight bags.
Hearing their voices, their housekeeper opens the kitchen door. “You want me to scramble you an egg, Miss Zell?”
“No, thank you, Mary. Just a biscuit and some jam, please.”
Sue looks up from tying the last bow and says, “Do we have anything festive I can put these bags in, Mary?”
“Might be something in the pantry,” the older woman says.
Sue follows her out through the kitchen and there on a top shelf of the pantry are several tins that had held fruitcake and cookies from her father’s grateful clients.
“That one’s right nice,” says Mary, pointing to a slender white canister painted in a Currier and Ives winter sleighing scene. The lid pictures seasonal greenery and the tin is big enough to hold all eight bags of candy.
Last night’s freezing rain petered out before bedtime and the morning sun is rapidly clearing the pavement, but there are patches of treacherous ice the sun has not yet touched and the car fishtails more than once even though Sue drives slower than usual.
As they near Cotton Grove, she turns off onto the dirt road that leads to their farm and stops at the first house to ask directions.
“You got to go back around and get across the creek and come in from the hardtop,” says the farmer who is crossing the yard to his barn when they drive up. “You can’t see the house from the road, but there’s a mailbox at his turn-in with a big cedar tree on one side and a magnolia on the other. On the left like you was going Cotton Grove. It’s at the bottom of a wide curve when you get to the creek.”
They thank him and retrace their route till the dirt road intersects with the highway.
“Bottom of a curve?” Zell asks as both scan the passing woodlands.
Sue nods, concentrating on the road’s icy patches. “Cedar tree, magnolia, mailbox on the left.”
They are beginning to think they must have gone too far when the road curves down and they see the landmarks the farmer described. The lane rises up from the bottom land and when they crest the rise, they see an old two-story wooden farmhouse with outbuildings behind. Like most of that time and place, the house is built of unpainted heart pine that has weathered into a soft silvery gray. Down the slope and off to one side is a family graveyard. Some of the stones are just that—big rocks dragged up from the creek—but one is a black marble obelisk. It has to be at least ten feet tall and must have cost a fortune.
As they drive into the yard, little boys tumble off the porch and out of the barn. A colored woman comes to the door with a toddler in her arms. A dark blue shawl protects both of them from the biting wind.
“Mr. Kezzie ain’t here,” she calls as soon as Sue steps out of the car. “Won’t be back till dinnertime.”
“That’s okay,” Sue calls back cheerfully.
When Zell comes downstairs next morning, she finds her sister in the breakfast room. A roll of red ribbon lies beside a half-eaten biscuit and Sue is filling small paper bags from a bowl of hard Christmas candies. Zell pours herself a cup of coffee and joins her at the table.
“Who are those for?” she asks.
With Ash hovering at Zell’s elbow all day yesterday, there had been no chance for Sue to talk to her alone. “Promise you won’t tell Mother or Dad?”
Zell listens wide-eyed while Sue tells how she pulled two small boys out of Possum Creek. “You could have drowned yourself. I knew we shouldn’t have let you go out there alone.”
“Then come with me this morning. I want to see if they’re okay and I thought I’d take them some candy. I doubt if their father does much for Christmas.”
Yet even as she says it, she remembers how eagerly those little boys had run to him and how he’d scooped them both up in his arms. She cuts lengths of the ribbon and begins to tie bows on the eight bags.
Hearing their voices, their housekeeper opens the kitchen door. “You want me to scramble you an egg, Miss Zell?”
“No, thank you, Mary. Just a biscuit and some jam, please.”
Sue looks up from tying the last bow and says, “Do we have anything festive I can put these bags in, Mary?”
“Might be something in the pantry,” the older woman says.
Sue follows her out through the kitchen and there on a top shelf of the pantry are several tins that had held fruitcake and cookies from her father’s grateful clients.
“That one’s right nice,” says Mary, pointing to a slender white canister painted in a Currier and Ives winter sleighing scene. The lid pictures seasonal greenery and the tin is big enough to hold all eight bags of candy.
Last night’s freezing rain petered out before bedtime and the morning sun is rapidly clearing the pavement, but there are patches of treacherous ice the sun has not yet touched and the car fishtails more than once even though Sue drives slower than usual.
As they near Cotton Grove, she turns off onto the dirt road that leads to their farm and stops at the first house to ask directions.
“You got to go back around and get across the creek and come in from the hardtop,” says the farmer who is crossing the yard to his barn when they drive up. “You can’t see the house from the road, but there’s a mailbox at his turn-in with a big cedar tree on one side and a magnolia on the other. On the left like you was going Cotton Grove. It’s at the bottom of a wide curve when you get to the creek.”
They thank him and retrace their route till the dirt road intersects with the highway.
“Bottom of a curve?” Zell asks as both scan the passing woodlands.
Sue nods, concentrating on the road’s icy patches. “Cedar tree, magnolia, mailbox on the left.”
They are beginning to think they must have gone too far when the road curves down and they see the landmarks the farmer described. The lane rises up from the bottom land and when they crest the rise, they see an old two-story wooden farmhouse with outbuildings behind. Like most of that time and place, the house is built of unpainted heart pine that has weathered into a soft silvery gray. Down the slope and off to one side is a family graveyard. Some of the stones are just that—big rocks dragged up from the creek—but one is a black marble obelisk. It has to be at least ten feet tall and must have cost a fortune.
As they drive into the yard, little boys tumble off the porch and out of the barn. A colored woman comes to the door with a toddler in her arms. A dark blue shawl protects both of them from the biting wind.
“Mr. Kezzie ain’t here,” she calls as soon as Sue steps out of the car. “Won’t be back till dinnertime.”
“That’s okay,” Sue calls back cheerfully.
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