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“Yeah. Your mom and my dad only got to be friends after Mom was gone, I imagine, because Dad started spending inordinate amounts of time at the Corral.”
She winced a little. He held up a hand. “It wasn’t a problem. He was probably self-medicating, but he wasn’t a drunk, didn’t come home and smack the kid around, nothing like that.”
She nodded, seeming relieved. “I remember your mom coming to school sometimes back in our elementary days. She was always so pretty. Always smelled great. Was always bringing things for our bake sales and whatnot and making sure to pack extra so we could sample them.” She sighed. “I thought of her as the kind of woman I’d like to grow up to be.”
“I think your mom would be disappointed to hear that,” he said softly, studying her, touched by her memories of his mother and curious to hear more. To learn how his mom had seemed through the eyes of Kara Brand.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. My mother is the most incredible woman I’ve ever known. But I never deluded myself into thinking I could be like her. She’s tough. Hard as nails, can take anything, get knocked down over and over again and always come back up swinging. Not me.” She shook her head. “No, your mom, on the other hand, always seemed... I don’t know... a little on the fragile side. Maybe not so strong and sure of herself, and yet somehow she managed to be beautiful and kind and graceful all the same. I think that’s what struck me about her most. The way I could see myself in her, only a better version of myself. You know? She was like the me I wished I could someday be.”
He studied her for a long moment “You have a way, you know that?”
“Do I?”
He nodded. “You say the most beautiful things. Touching things. Things that move me. I don’t think my mother has ever been paid a higher compliment than what you just said.”
She lowered her eyes, and her cheeks pinkened. “It’s nothing but the truth.”
“Yeah? Well, I think you got your wish, Kara. I don’t know many women who could compare to my mother in my eyes, but you...”
She shook her head. “Don’t Jimmy. I couldn’t hold a candle to your mother.”
“No, I mean it. You remind me of her. I hadn’t even realized how much until this moment. Seeing you here in this kitchen.” He shook his head. “It’s a little surreal.”
“Thank you. You, um... say some pretty nice things yourself.”
He nodded and walked around the kitchen, absently opening cupboards and drawers, most of which were empty. “I miss her,” he said idly. “I miss her a lot”
“I know. I can’t imagine losing my mom even now, much less at the age of ten.”
“Eleven,” he told her.
“I don’t know how an eleven-year-old could handle that. I don’t know how you did.”
He couldn’t quite shake the feeling ofdeja vuthat overtook him as he watched her. She was looking around the room now, just as he had, a little frown between her brows. And he was remembering again. Remembering the funeral, when he stood beside his mother’s grave. Half the town had turned out. He’d been in sixth grade, just beginning to develop an interest in girls, but the fairer sex had been the farthest thing from his mind that day. He’d been drowning in grief, and wondering how it could possibly be true. How could he and his dad keep waking up every day, going to work and school, coming home and having dinner? How could they, when Mom was gone? He expected the entire world to just suddenly stop, and it would have been fine with him if it had.
And then this little girl had come walking up to the graveside. She’d been a fourth grader. Probably nine or so. And even then she’d been painfully shy, quiet. Somehow, though, she’d overcome that shyness to step forward, to lay her little bundle of wild-flowers, which she’d picked herself, onto his mother’s casket. And then she’d come to him and she’d said, “I have a lot of sisters and a mom over there.”
He’d followed her gaze to where a crowd of females stood. Some younger than him, some older, with their mother.
“So?” he’d asked.
“So you’ve only got your dad now. So if you need some extras—more family, you know—you can borrow mine.”
He had been angry that day, angry at the world. But not so blinded by it that he didn’t recognize the gesture as her way of trying to help him. He’d choked out a thank-you, and she’d run back to her family with tears rolling down her little cheeks.
As the memory faded, Kara turned, caught him staring at her. “That was you, wasn’t it?” he asked.
She lifted her brows. “What was me?”
“The little girl at my mother’s funeral. With the scraggly bouquet of forget-me-nots and black-eyed Susans and wild chicory. You offered to share your family with me.”
She smiled softly and nodded. “That was me. I wanted to do something, but I just didn’t know what. I couldn’t imagine anything that would help.”
“You cried for her,” he said.
“No. Mama promised me she was fine, singing with the angels. I cried for you, Jimmy.”
He shook his head slowly. “You’ve probably got the biggest, softest heart around.”
