Page 20 of First Moon

On a warm day in late September, Ivy took me to her home. By the time we reached Juniper Creek, the sun had started its slow drop behind the hills, illuminating the welcome sign like it was planned.

Welcome to Juniper Creek, Tennessee.

Good water. Good people. Good Lord willing.

“It’s good to be home,” Ivy said, hometown pride clear in her voice. “Juniper Creek. Population depends on who got married, who got divorced, and how many babies were conceived in the back seat of someone’s car.”

I laughed. “Is that a regular occurrence?”

“Not in my family. My brothers know better than that.” Ivy sat up straighter in the passenger seat, bare legs tucked beneath the skirt of her dress. We’re about to hit downtown. Don’t blink or you’ll miss half of it.”

The road curved, dipped, and then carried us into town. Juniper Creek was like a community from another time, with brick storefronts, uneven sidewalks, and shade trees planted long enough ago that their roots had lifted whole sections of concrete. American flags hung from black iron brackets. Planters spilled over with petunias, trailing sweet potato vine, and a few stubborn geraniums still hanging on from summer.

A banner stretched across Main Street between two lampposts.

Go Juniper Creek Hawks! Homecoming Friday Night!

“That’s Waylon's doing, most likely,” Ivy said, pointing toward the banner. “High school football is basically religion around here. Church on Sunday, football on Friday, gossip every day in between.”

“They must be proud of you around here,” I said.

“They’re not too impressed. They knew me when I was just the little sister of the famous James brothers.”

I didn’t comment, but I felt certain folks around here were plenty proud to have raised Ivy James.

On the corner sat Creekside Diner, a low brick building with a striped awning and a neon coffee cup in the window.

“That’s a popular place to go after church,” Ivy said. “Mama and her friends have planned church socials, baby showers, Christmas pageants—you name it—right there in the corner booth. They make a mean biscuit too, but don’t tell Mama I said that. She’s real sensitive about her baked goods.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

Across the street was Puckett & Sons Hardware, with rakes, mums, and bags of feed displayed out front. An older man in overalls stood by the door talking to a woman holding a paint sample, both of them turning to watch my truck roll past.

“That’s Caleb’s second home,” Ivy said. “He uses local products and wood when he can. He always says if folks want a custom house built around these parts they should be made with local goods.”

“What got him started in construction?” I asked.

“Oh, he was just born to do it. Used to build furniture in the barn—started when he was like twelve or something. That’s all he ever wanted to do. Make beautiful things with his hands.”

We passed the Juniper Creek Pharmacy, with an old-fashioned soda fountain sign painted in the window, then the Bank of Juniper Creek, the post office, and a little shop called The Flower Cart, its front door propped open with a galvanized bucket full of sunflowers.

“That’s where everyone gets their prom boutonnieres and corsages,” Ivy said. “And apology flowers.”

“I’m going to stop and get a bouquet for your mom.”

“That’s a good idea. Best not to come empty handed.”

I pulled in front of the shop. Ivy said she’d wait for me. “It’s always a thing when I come around, so it’s best if you just get in and out.”

Soon enough, I was back in the truck with a bouquet of sunflowers mixed with sweet peas and a few lilies.

“She’ll love those,” Ivy said, taking them from me.

I started the truck, and we drove past the courthouse square. An old brick building with navy awnings and hanging ferns sat on the corner.

“The Blue Heron,” Ivy said. “That’s our fancy place here in Juniper Creek.”

“How fancy?”