Page 35 of Magnolia Summer

“Sweet little Lizzie.” Mrs. Beverly reached out her hand, and Lizzie hurried over and gave her another hug. “She’s such an angel, the way she took over the household after your father, bless his soul, went to heaven. Don’t you think so, Celia?”

“Yes, ma’am. I admire my sister and brother very much.” Lizzie and Will had shown a lot of maturity.Unlike me, who stayed away at my job and let the full burden fall on my younger siblings.Was Mrs. Beverly thinking the same thing?

“And you, my dear, giving up your employment and dream of opening a dress shop to come and take care of your family . . .” She smiled sadly at Celia, then shook her head.

Celia shifted in her chair. Should she try to explain to the woman that she hadn’t given up, that she still intended to go back? But that was uncertain now, although Celia was still hoping to find a way.

Mrs. Beverly continued. “We all must make sacrifices for our families. You may not know this, Miss Celia, but Mr. Beverly, ever since the war, has been living with his brother in Columbia, Tennessee, helping him run his brick manufacturing business. You’ll meet Mr. Beverly. He comes home every so often. Mr. Beverly and his brother, William Beverly, both have good heads for business, which is fortunate for us, I suppose. After the war, things were so altered.”

Mrs. Beverly frowned almost imperceptibly, then flashed a wide smile. “But ‘all things work together for good to them that love God.’ And Mr. Beverly comes home whenever he can, bless him.” She lowered her voice. “Griff doesn’t like to make the trip to Columbia. It quite unsettles him. So we make out with Truett’s help. Families do what they have to do to take care of each other.”

Celia peeked out the screen door for a glimpse of Griff. He was still sitting with Harley as they played with their toy men and horses. Griff’s voice drifted through the door to Celia. She listened to try to make out what he was saying.

“It’s the hooded horseman! Bang, bang! Take that, mean old sheriff!”

Harley’s voice answered with, “I’ll get you, hooded horseman! You can’t get away from me! Bang, bang! You’re dead!”

“And how is your mother, the poor dear?” Mrs. Beverly said, drawing her attention away from Griff and Harley.

“She is well in body, I believe, though not so well in mind. Speaking of Mother, let me go get her. She’s sitting in the kitchen. I’m sure some company will do her good.” Celia went hurrying through the hallway to the kitchen. In a coaxing voice, she urged her mother to get up and come to the parlor to visit with Mrs. Beverly. They made their way as quickly as her mother’s shuffling, slippered feet would take her into the room. Celia sat her in the most comfortable chair, and then took her place again. Mrs. Beverly went over and spoke kindly to her, holding her hands as she patiently re-introduced herself, repeating her name. Then she came back to her chair near Celia’s.

As effusive as Mrs. Beverly was, Celia sensed a sincerity in her that was not unlike her son’s. She couldn’t help but like Truett’s mother.

Mrs. Beverly spoke quietly. “I’m so sorry. I do hope she will learn to cast her sorrow on the Lord. It is hard.” Mrs. Beverly nodded and a faraway look came into her gaze. “I lost two sons in the war. I don’t know if you knew. Truett and Griff had two older brothers. But they’re gone now.” Her voice became thin and quiet as she spoke the last sentence.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Celia’s heart clenched. Truett couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, Will’s age, when the war ended.

“You know,” Mrs. Beverly brightened, smiling again, “Will reminds me so much of Truett at that age. He even has the same blond hair and blue eyes. So handsome. Truett was such a good boy, always looking after Griff. Griff is actually older than Truett, but Truett’s always had to watch out for him, ever since the accident.”

Mrs. Beverly clasped one hand over her chest. “Listen to me, jabbering on. I’ll be forgot what it was I came to tell you.”

She paused and smiled, looking first at Lizzie and then at Celia.

Lizzie leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Just something for you young folks.” She leaned forward, too, whispering conspiratorially. “We’re having a dance at the big cotton warehouse in Bethel Springs next Saturday. Won’t that be fun?”

“A dance! Hurray!” Lizzie jumped out of her seat and laughed.

Celia raised her eyebrows. Lizzie had never been to a dance before, and Celia wasn’t so sure she was ready for one now, at only fourteen.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Beverly smiled at Celia. “Our country dances aren’t so formal as the ones in Nashville. Children of all ages come and have lemonade and cake and pie and play games. The older ladies watch over them. It’s all very proper. More like a picnic, actually.”

“Oh. But Mother is still in mourning. Are you sure it’s proper?”

Mrs. Beverly squeezed her hand. “It’s been six months. No one would think anything of you young people coming to the party. And of course, your mother must come, too, to watch the little ones.”

As a widow, Mama’s full mourning period lasted longer. For at least a year she would be expected to wear black, with a veil covering her face in public, and would not be expected to attend social events. But apparently Mrs. Beverly felt the Fourth of July dance was an exception. Or perhaps formal mourning practices were not as adhered to in the informal setting of Bethel Springs.

“Now the dance is going to be July third, that’s a week from this Saturday. The Fourth of July is on a Sunday this year, so we’re just going to celebrate The Glorious Fourth a day early.”

Lizzie clapped her hands and Tempie joined in, squealing with laughter, even though she probably had no idea what she was clapping about. Even Will was smiling.

Mrs. Beverly rose from her chair. “I’d better run along. I need to go tell Mrs. Prichard and Ruby and, oh, just a whole host of people that I haven’t told yet. I’ll see all of you there.” She chucked Tempie under chin on the way out, making the child giggle.

* * *

That evening in the lamplight,Celia sat at the desk in the corner, penning a letter to the horse farm in Kentucky where her father had bought the four broodmares and one stallion, asking if they’d buy three of the mares back. One mare was still missing. And the stallion that had kicked Daddy. A cold chill slithered down her spine just thinking about that horse. She was glad he was lost, since she’d rather not have to look on the creature that had killed her father and caused her family so much grief.