Page 28 of First Moon

One of us. I was now part of a second family, to add to the one I’d already made with my boys in the band. Now I just needed her to say yes.

8

IVY

Ispent the morning with Mama in the garden, pulling weeds and picking the last of her squash and tomatoes, chatting while we worked. Mama and I never ran out of things to say to each other. By eleven, hot and sweaty, we made our way inside to the cool house, arms loaded with our bounty.

I’d assumed we would spend the afternoon canning. Jack had been invited to breakfast in town with my brothers. God only knew what they were putting him through. He’d been tight-lipped about his conversation with my daddy. Regardless, they’d come in after their talk looking more like friends than foes, so I figured it went fine.

“You best get cleaned up before Jack gets back,” Mama said.

“Don’t you want me to help you can?”

“Not today. Jack has plans to take you down to the creek. It’s supposed to be hot this afternoon, so wear your swimsuit.”

Swimsuit. That’s how this whole thing had started. I bit back a smile.

I wanted to argue and insist I stay to help, but the thought of diving into the deep pool of Juniper Creek at Sycamore Bend was too tempting.

So that was how, an hour later, I found myself walking with Jack across the lower pasture, carrying a blanket while he carried a wicker basket Mama had packed while I was upstairs changing. The September afternoon was warm, but not vicious-sticky the way summer had been. A breeze moved through the grass and lifted the ends of my hair off my neck. Overhead, the sky was that impossible Tennessee blue that reminded me I was home.

“This way,” I said, leading him toward the tree line.

The pasture sloped gently down behind the barn, past the last stretch of black fencing and a patch of goldenrod buzzing with bees. Our horses, Betty and Boop, lifted their heads as we passed but didn’t find anything interesting and went back to grazing.

I had my bathing suit on under a pair of jean shorts and a loose tee. Jack wore his swim trunks and a tee from the merch we’d sold at my recent concert tour.

At the edge of the woods, we heard a soft, steady rush of water over rock. “It’s just through there.” I pointed at the narrow path worn down by four generations of James’ feet. Daddy kept it cleared, but roots still crossed the dirt in places, and wild muscadine vines curled through the underbrush. Sycamores leaned over the water, their pale trunks patchy and smooth, broad leaves stirring in the breeze.

The trees opened and there was Sycamore Bend. My favorite place in the whole world.

Juniper Creek curved in a wide, green bend beneath two old sycamores whose branches reached over the water. In most places, the creek ran shallow and clear over flat limestone and smooth brown stones, the kind of water children could wade through with rolled-up jeans and shriek every time a crawdad moved. But here, where the bank dipped and the current had carved itself deeper over time, the water made the perfect swimming hole.

A rope swing hung from the strongest sycamore limb, the knot at the bottom worn smooth from decades of hands. Flat rocks lined one side of the bank, warm in the sun, and a little patch of grass opened beneath the trees where Mama used to spread her quilt when we were little so she could keep watch over us.

“This is it,” I said.

Jack came to stand beside me. “No wonder you love it here.”

I showed him every detail. The flat rock where a person could sit with just their feet in the water. “I used to come down here with my guitar, put my feet in the water and write songs and daydream about becoming a singer. But the most fun was when all of us were here together—swinging on that rope. Diving to the bottom to look for a crawdad.”

“Did you ever find one?” Jack asked.

“Yeah. One time one clamped itself onto Beau’s finger. He came up screaming and spitting out water. We laughed for days.”

“Poor Beau.”

“Things like that were always happening to him. He’s the most adventurous of us, obviously.”

We spread the blanket in the shade of a tree. Mama had packed fried chicken, biscuits, peaches, little jars of pickles, pimento cheese, deviled eggs, a tomato salad still warm from the vines, and a bottle of sparkling wine to wash it all down with.

“Mama packed wine,” I said. “That’s kind of weird. Usually she disapproves of day-drinking.”

Jack sat beside me, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out. “Maybe she figured it was a celebration. You bringing me to your favorite place.”

“Maybe. She was acting odd all morning.” I pointed to the low bank on the far side. “Beau jumped from there when he was nine and broke his arm. He told Mama he fell out of a tree because he was afraid Daddy would cut down the rope swing if he knew the truth.”

“Did she believe him?”