Martha said again.
Spencer felt an irrational urge to swear, out of all proportion to his interest in music. What, after all, did it matter to him whether a total stranger continued to make records or not? "How'd she get hepatitis?" he finally asked.
LeDonne shrugged. "The deejay didn't say. Probably all that bad food singers have to eat when they're on the road. I hear seafood can be dangerous."
"Well, how long will it take her to get over it?"
LeDonne and Martha looked at each other. "I don't think she will," said Martha. "Liver damage is permanent. It's the one organ that doesn't get better, and you can't do without it."
Spencer looked down at his rapidly cooling 73
cup of coffee, trying to figure out who he was angry at—them for spoiling his morning with bad news, or Naomi Judd for her mortality. He walked into his office without another word.
Martha shrugged. " 'Mama, He's Crazy,' " she said to Joe.
He gave her half a smile to show that he recognized the title of the Judds' greatest hit.
After a few more minutes' silence, broken only by a Floyd Kramer oldie from the radio, Spencer called out, "Martha, can you get me the zip code for Ashland, Kentucky?"
Laura Bruce took a tentative sip of the tea-colored beverage in the earthenware mug. "What did you say this was?"
"Betony," said Nora Bonesteel. "Go on, drink it. It will do you good—in your condition."
She froze with the steaming mug inches from her lips. "My condition," she echoed. "You really do know things, don't you?"
"Some things." The old woman was not looking at her. She had turned to gaze out the big window at the meadow of brown stubble stretching down to the wood's edge. The lowering sky was gray with clouds, bleaching the color from the landscape. "When anybody says November, this is the image that always comes to my mind: bleak, as if the whole world was graveyard dead."
It had been a week since Laura's night ride through the holler in answer to the sheriff's summons. The color and animation had returned to the younger woman's face, and she no
longer seemed so tired. The burgundy sweater she wore complemented her dark hair, making her seem less pale. She was curled up on Nora Bonesteel's sofa, enjoying another "parish visit." She had set out to visit the Underhills' farm, but a twinge of nausea—and perhaps dread at the memory of her last visit—had made her turn off before she reached their road, and head up Ashe Mountain to spend a comforting morning with Nora Bonesteel.
Laura looked about her for the pet groundhog. "Has Persey gone out to hibernate yet?"
"She left last week. Waddled out into the backyard and dug herself a hole under the grape arbor. Sometimes I envy her that little death of hers. The world is always warm and green when Persey's in it. She never sees the bleakness. Autumn can be pretty, too, I know, but it's a brittle kind of beauty. I'm always surprised to see blue skies and sunny days in November; seems like they never stick in my mind the way this does."
"We had a pretty day for the Underhills' funeral," Laura said. "But somehow it felt just as desolate as today looks." She shivered, and ventured another sip of herbal tea. "I was sad for Mark and Maggie, left with not a soul in the world but each other. There was even talk of putting them out of their home because they were under age."
Nora Bonesteel's face remained impassive. She busied herself with stirring a dollop of honey into her own tea. Laura studied the high cheekbones and angular features of the still-
handsome old woman and wondered if she had Cherokee blood in her. The steel-blue eyes bespoke her Scots ancestry—and the Sight, of course. At last she spoke. "I'd have thought you had enough to keep you occupied without taking on grown young'uns to raise."
Laura squirmed under the tranquil gaze. "It didn't seem much to ask," she protested. "The sheriff came up to me after the funeral, and said that the Underhills had asked that I be appointed
Spencer felt an irrational urge to swear, out of all proportion to his interest in music. What, after all, did it matter to him whether a total stranger continued to make records or not? "How'd she get hepatitis?" he finally asked.
LeDonne shrugged. "The deejay didn't say. Probably all that bad food singers have to eat when they're on the road. I hear seafood can be dangerous."
"Well, how long will it take her to get over it?"
LeDonne and Martha looked at each other. "I don't think she will," said Martha. "Liver damage is permanent. It's the one organ that doesn't get better, and you can't do without it."
Spencer looked down at his rapidly cooling 73
cup of coffee, trying to figure out who he was angry at—them for spoiling his morning with bad news, or Naomi Judd for her mortality. He walked into his office without another word.
Martha shrugged. " 'Mama, He's Crazy,' " she said to Joe.
He gave her half a smile to show that he recognized the title of the Judds' greatest hit.
After a few more minutes' silence, broken only by a Floyd Kramer oldie from the radio, Spencer called out, "Martha, can you get me the zip code for Ashland, Kentucky?"
Laura Bruce took a tentative sip of the tea-colored beverage in the earthenware mug. "What did you say this was?"
"Betony," said Nora Bonesteel. "Go on, drink it. It will do you good—in your condition."
She froze with the steaming mug inches from her lips. "My condition," she echoed. "You really do know things, don't you?"
"Some things." The old woman was not looking at her. She had turned to gaze out the big window at the meadow of brown stubble stretching down to the wood's edge. The lowering sky was gray with clouds, bleaching the color from the landscape. "When anybody says November, this is the image that always comes to my mind: bleak, as if the whole world was graveyard dead."
It had been a week since Laura's night ride through the holler in answer to the sheriff's summons. The color and animation had returned to the younger woman's face, and she no
longer seemed so tired. The burgundy sweater she wore complemented her dark hair, making her seem less pale. She was curled up on Nora Bonesteel's sofa, enjoying another "parish visit." She had set out to visit the Underhills' farm, but a twinge of nausea—and perhaps dread at the memory of her last visit—had made her turn off before she reached their road, and head up Ashe Mountain to spend a comforting morning with Nora Bonesteel.
Laura looked about her for the pet groundhog. "Has Persey gone out to hibernate yet?"
"She left last week. Waddled out into the backyard and dug herself a hole under the grape arbor. Sometimes I envy her that little death of hers. The world is always warm and green when Persey's in it. She never sees the bleakness. Autumn can be pretty, too, I know, but it's a brittle kind of beauty. I'm always surprised to see blue skies and sunny days in November; seems like they never stick in my mind the way this does."
"We had a pretty day for the Underhills' funeral," Laura said. "But somehow it felt just as desolate as today looks." She shivered, and ventured another sip of herbal tea. "I was sad for Mark and Maggie, left with not a soul in the world but each other. There was even talk of putting them out of their home because they were under age."
Nora Bonesteel's face remained impassive. She busied herself with stirring a dollop of honey into her own tea. Laura studied the high cheekbones and angular features of the still-
handsome old woman and wondered if she had Cherokee blood in her. The steel-blue eyes bespoke her Scots ancestry—and the Sight, of course. At last she spoke. "I'd have thought you had enough to keep you occupied without taking on grown young'uns to raise."
Laura squirmed under the tranquil gaze. "It didn't seem much to ask," she protested. "The sheriff came up to me after the funeral, and said that the Underhills had asked that I be appointed
Similar Books
