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“You know the funny thing about love?”
I don’t respond, thinking there’s not a single thing funny about love right now. It’s the highest high and the lowest low, all wrapped up in one big shredded T-shirt bow.
“People think it’s something you feel, an emotion. A noun. Like you love football or your husband or pepperoni pizza.”
How does she know I love pepperoni pizza? Oh, she’s not talking about me, specifically. Or is she? She does know everything.
When I don’t respond, she speaks again. “It’s not. Or at least, it’s not only that. Love is something you do. A verb. It’s in every action, reaction. My husband, John, worked this land every single day to make a life for us. That was love—every head of cattle he bought and sold, every fence he fixed, every bead of sweat he earned through his dedication was a love note to me, to our boys. In return, every meal I made, every load of his dirty clothes I washed, and every sunrise I saw after hours of being up to get the day started was my love note to him. There were other ways we loved each other too. But make no mistake, the day in, day out of love was in the action, the verb of doing something for each other, to take care of one another. We were in this thing called life together. I still write those notes to him, making meals for our family, taking care of his land and cattle, watering that damn tree out front because I can’t bear to ever see it wither and don’t trust the rain enough to take care of it the way I will.”
Mama Louise’s blue eyes are bright with unshed tears as she glances toward the front of the house. There is a tree out front, but I didn’t realize it had any special meaning for her. I even took a picture of its branches filled with green leaves with pockets of blue sky peeking through. It’s in that box on the table. It’d seemed like a pretty shot, and if I’d posted it to my blog, I would’ve added something witty about a seed growing tall and mighty. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad that shot is just for Mama Louise and that it’ll mean something to her.
“It sounds like John was a great man, a great husband,” I say tentatively. I still feel like we’re dancing, but I can’t see the trail she’s leading me down.
“He was. Full of love, full of kindness, full of heart. A lot like you, Willow. I don’t need to know the details of what happened. That’s between you and Bobby. But know that sometimes love, the verb, I mean, is hard to do, but you do it anyway.”
Does she think Bobby broke up with me and I’m supposed to love him anyway?
Does she know I sent him off to Nashville, and she’s telling me she understands why I did it?
I don’t know.
Hell, maybe this is her way of getting gossip straight from the source, though I don’t think she’s the type at all.
The oven timer dings, breaking the moment. “Oh, that’s dinner. Can you stay?” she asks.
“No. Actually, I’d better be going.” I don’t want to be here when everyone comes in to eat after a long day. “Tell everyone I hope they like them,” I say, lifting my head toward the boxes.
She sets the casserole dish on the stovetop and comes over to hug me, oven mitts and all. “You take care of yourself, Willow. You’re so good at taking care of everyone else, don’t forget to take care of you too.” She eyes me, daring me to disobey. Somehow, I think she’ll know if I don’t follow her order.
“I will. Bye, Mama Louise.”
I’m out the door and halfway to town before the tears come again. I’ll miss her and that whole family.
I stop by Unc’s house, noting that the flower beds look pretty good. I wonder if Unc was feeling well enough to get out here and weed them? Or maybe Bobby stopped by one day without mentioning it?
I knock on the door and Unc answers quickly. He’s moving pretty well, not even limping today as he leads me into the living room.
“I can only stay a second, but I wanted to let you know . . .”
Chapter 24
Bobby
“I’m here to see Jeremy Marshall,” I tell the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?” Her tone is snippy, like I’m beneath her.
“No. Tell him Bobby Tannen is here, please.”
My name doesn’t mean shit, especially here. And after last week’s phone call where I told a shocked Jeremy that I was turning down his offer, he might not want to see me at all. But I hope he does.
I drove all night into this morning to get here. I slept for a few hours in a truck stop parking lot and dug a fresh shirt out of the backseat of my truck. By fresh, I mean clean, not unwrinkled. Despite the receptionist’s lingering glances, I know I look like hell. I feel even worse.
