Читать книгу Sweetgrass - Мэри Монро, Мэри Элис Монро, Mary Monroe Alice - Страница 10

Skill, craftsmanship and long hours of work are involved in making sweetgrass baskets. A simple design can take as long as twelve hours. A larger, more complex design can take as long as two to three months.

NONA SIGHED HEAVILY as she brought her van to a stop at Sweetgrass. She looked through the shaded windshield at the handsome white house. It sure was a picture, she thought, cloaked as it was in the pink light of early morning. She’d spent the better part of her life working in this old house and a part of her was happy to come back to it. Maize couldn’t understand such feelings—and that was okay. Nona prided herself on the choices she’d made in her own life and didn’t care to change her ways now. The wind did blow when Maize heard she’d decided to come back to work at Sweetgrass, but it was up to Maize to accept what was.

Nona pulled herself out from the shiny white van, stretching a bit after landing in the soft gravel. She’d bought the car after years of saving her basket money, and every time she looked at it, a ripple of pride coursed through her. Usually it was stuffed to the brim with her baskets, but she’d removed the treasures to store safely in her house until things were settled here at Sweetgrass. She pulled from the van a large canvas bag filled with grass, palmetto fronds and her tools. Every spare minute, her fingers sewed the baskets.

Blackjack greeted her in his usual manner, a grayed muzzle at her thigh and his tail waving behind like a tom-tom drum.

“Hello, you ol’ hound dog,” she exclaimed with affection, bending to pat the fur.

Morgan’s voice caught her by surprise. “’Morning, Nona! You’re here early. What? You can’t stay away?”

His tall, lanky form came from around the side of the house. He was dressed in a faded old T-shirt that was torn at the neck, paint-splattered jeans and worn hiking boots caked with mud. His face was as yet unshaven, and his thick brown curls tumbled askew on his head. He looked like the eight-year-old boy she remembered running in from the field, blue eyes twinkling, to show her a robin’s egg or a snake skin or some other treasure he’d unearthed.

Nona clucked her tongue. “What you got in your hands there?” she asked, indicating the towel he was carrying. “A frog?”

He lifted a paintbrush from the towel. “I’m fixing up the kitchen house. Mama June wants the new aide to stay there. I’ve patched up a few leaks in the roof, put in a window air conditioner in the bedroom, new screens on the windows and now I’m finishing up a fresh coat of paint. You know,” he said, scratching his jaw, “it’s looking pretty good. I’m thinking maybe I should move in, instead.”

“Oh, no you don’t. That girl’s going to want her own space. So’s your mama. You just be a good boy and finish fixing that place up for Miss…what’s her name?”

“Kristina Hays.”

She acknowledged this with a nod. “Well, I’ve got things to get done before Miss Hays arrives, too.”

“I hope she works out.”

“You and me both.” She looked over to the house. “Seems quiet in there.”

“Mama’s sleeping now, or was last time I checked.”

Her brows rose. “Your mama’s still asleep?” She glanced quickly at her wristwatch. “She always rises with the sun. She’s not sick, is she?”

He shook his head. “Just exhausted. I didn’t bother her, and frankly, I’m glad she’s catching up. She’s been going non-stop.”

“That’s just her way. When she’s got herself a project, she gives one hundred percent. And given that this project is your daddy, she’s straining all her gears.”

“Yeah, but she’s sixty-six years old.”

“I’m sixty-eight! What’s your point?”

Morgan laughed. Nona was one of those people who was ageless. She seemed to him today to be the same woman she was when he was a boy. She still stood straight-backed and full-breasted, like some Wagnerian princess. Her hair still gleamed, too, though more like the black-and-white osprey’s wing than a raven’s. She wore it in much the same, short-curled style. Most of all, her spirit had not aged one whit.

One of his first memories of Nona was when he was three or four. Her finger was wagging and her eyes were flames as she scolded his older brother, Hamlin, within an inch of his life. Ham was much older, around thirteen. Yet there he was with his head bowed, filled with remorse. Up till that time, his big brother had seemed to him like a prince among men, a hero beyond reproach. Certainly his parents had never laid down the law like that. Morgan never figured out exactly what it was that Hamlin had done to rile Nona so, though he knew it had something to do with Hamlin taking Morgan out on the boat. Ham had taken him out lots of times without permission, but Morgan was too young to understand why Nona would be so upset about that. Only in retrospect did he see that it was an omen. Nonetheless, his earth had shifted that day as he witnessed her power over his brother.

Morgan put his hands up in mock surrender. “No point made.”

Her dark eyes gleamed in amused triumph. “She’ll get herself up before too long. You eat yet?” she asked him.

“Grabbed some orange juice and a Pop-Tart.”

Nona wrinkled her nose in disgust. “It’s no wonder you’re looking like a scarecrow. I’m amazed you managed to live so long all alone.”

“Who said I was alone?”

That caught her off guard and her face showed it. She quickly recouped, delivering a no-nonsense glare at his smirk. “Don’t you just wish. What woman is gonna hitch her star to someone as dog-ugly as you? Come back inside in about half an hour. I’m fixing to roll out some biscuits and fry up some bacon. And coffee,” she added, her body yearning for her beloved brew.

Morgan smiled as he watched Nona climb the stairs to the house. It wasn’t often he could render Nona speechless.

Hours later, Morgan was applying the last coat of Charleston Green paint to the kitchen house front door when he heard a car pulling up to the house followed by Blackjack’s gruff bark of alarm. The dog’s arthritic legs strained under the effort of rising. Feeling like an old dog himself after a long morning of painting, he slowly straightened with one hand anchoring the small of his back. His gaze followed Blackjack’s rush toward the sound of crunching gravel.

From around the house, a tall, lean woman dressed in bleached jean lowriders and a cuffed white shirt walked toward him with a straight-backed, confident, hip-swaying gait. Her oversize, scuffed brown leather purse banged against her slender hip in steady, seductive rhythm. Morgan watched her, squinting in the noonday sun. Against the glare, her long, wildly curly hair seemed an aura around her head that captured and held the golden light.

“Hi there,” she called out as she approached. Her voice lilted at the end, like a song.

“Hello,” he responded with more reserve as she breezily sauntered near. “Can I help you?”

Up close, the force of her personality dominated his first impression. The young woman vibrated with life. It sparked out from her bright blue eyes and shone from her very white, no-holds-barred smile.

“I hope so,” she said, smiling straight into his eyes. “I’m looking for the Blakely residence.”

“Well, you found it.”

“Good! The directions said to turn in at the Sweetgrass gate and you’re the only house I’ve found.” She put out her hand. “I’m Kristina Hays. The agency sent me.”

He blinked again. “You’re the new aide?”

“Yes,” she said, her smile faltering. “I hope you’re expecting me.”

Morgan quickly recouped. “Yes. Absolutely. I’m Morgan. Morgan Blakely.”

She took his hand and he was impressed by the strength of her handshake.

“You seem surprised to see me,” she said.

“It’s just…well, you’re different than I expected.” He didn’t quite know what he expected, exactly. “Younger,” he added lamely.

“I don’t believe in age. But don’t worry, I’m old enough. And I’ve been doing this for years, though not in South Carolina. I only moved here a few months ago. From California,” she added, as though this fact alone qualified her for the job.

Blackjack, who had been circling anxiously, finally could bear it no longer and nosed closer, boldly began sniffing her feet.

“Hey there, big fella!” she exclaimed warmly. “Are we ignoring you? What’s your name?” She dropped her bag and bent to warmly pat his head and flop his ears.

Rather than be suspicious of the stranger, Blackjack whined happily at her attention, rudely pawing her legs.

“Blackjack!” Morgan called. “Back off!”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, still stroking the black fur. “Dogs like me. Blackjack, huh? Good name.”

He lifted his chin toward the house. “Here comes my mother now.”

He felt a boyish pride and affection at the sight of his mother striding along the path from the main house to the kitchen house. She was simply dressed in a dark skirt, floral blouse and sensible shoes. Her hair was a snowy-white mass twisted into a bun at the back of her head. Signs of the beauty she once was added charm to the graciousness and fresh, scrubbed appeal of her open, smiling face.

“Miss Hays? I’m Mary June Blakely. Welcome to Sweetgrass.”

Kristina’s warmth matched his mother’s as she reached out to take her offered hand. The two women’s eyes met and measured; Morgan could feel the tacit approval in the air.