Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [112]
“That there is my Destry’s ring.”
I put my arm around Otto. He has tears in his eyes as he thinks of the love of his life, the beautiful Melungeon girl who died in childbirth bringing Worley into the world. Pearl holds her hand and looks down at the ring and adjusts it with her other hand. The judge pronounces Taye Bakagese and Pearl Grimes man and wife, and the applause echoes up and into the mountains behind us.
I feel Fleeta’s breath on the back of my neck. “Them babies of theirs is gonna be real brown,” she whispers.
“And beautiful,” I whisper back.
“Yup,” she says. I turn and look at Fleeta. Could she be softening up after all these years?
The tent, lit by tiny blue lights, showcases a feast of Southwest Virginia and Indian cuisine. Who knew that buttery sautéed kale tasted so good with grilled lamb kabobs?
“Hey, Ava!” Sweet Sue Tinsley says as she pats me on the back. In Big Stone Gap, we have open-church weddings (in this case, open-theater); they are announced in the paper and everyone is welcome. Sweet Sue Tinsley evidently kept her subscription to The Post, so she stays in the loop and on our party circuit. I take a good look at Jack Mac’s old girlfriend. She is aging just as I thought she would: very well. She’s cut her hair very short. Little spikes of white-yellow hair stick out all over her head. She wears a strapless white dress with a red patent-leather belt.
“How’s Kingsport?”
“The boys love it. Mike is working at the paper plant.”
“Great.”
“How are you?”
“Busy. But fine.”
“I’m a grandmother, you know.”
“I didn’t know!” I look at Sweet Sue. It seems impossible that she could be a grandmother.
“Yeah, my oldest, Chris, fell in love with his high school sweetheart. And she got pregnant. Little Michael is three months old.”
“Congratulations. You’re the foxiest grandma I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, and I mean it.
“Thank you, honey. I appreciate that. I do. You’re lookin’ good yourself!”
Sweet Sue excuses herself and runs off to say hello to lots of folks she hasn’t seen in a long while. I knock back an egg roll. I may look all right, but it’s depressing to think that I am actually old enough to be a grandmother.
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you dance with me right now,” Theodore says in my ear.
“I’m eating.”
“Starve.” He grabs me for a slow dance by the Jerome Street Ramblers.
“What is your problem?”
“Sarah Dunleavy has a jones for me like you wouldn’t believe.”
“She’s harmless.”
“She’s forty.”
“You’re forty-four.”
“Yeah, but I’m not trying to score a husband and a baby in the next six months. She’s on a mission.”
Then, as though we have glided into an old memory, Jack cuts in.
“I’d like to dance with my wife,” Jack says, and smiles.
“I’d like you to dance with Sarah Dunleavy,” Theodore tells him.
“No way!” I step into my husband’s arms and out of Theodore’s. Theodore heads for the dessert table as Jack sways with me under the glittery canopy (the same one used every year at the Powell Valley High School prom).
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing.”
“Why’d you cut in?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes you’ve got to dance with your wife.”
“Don’t you want to dance with Sarah Dunleavy?”
“She’s too skinny.”
“But she’s quiet, and she choral-reads Shakespeare.”
“I like noise, and I hate Shakespeare.”
“Uh, Jack?”
“Yes, darlin’?”
“Honey, is that your—” As we sway on the dance floor, I carefully move Jack’s hand from my butt to my waist.
“It better be my hand,” he says.
Pearl and Taye kiss by the band; Spec presses his fork into Nellie Goodloe’s cherry jubilee; Leola has a smoke with Fleeta (I’m sure Leola is catching her up on all the News); Iva Lou and Lyle stand over the steam tables surveying the choices; and Theodore takes the last seat at the table with Rick and Rita Harmon and their kids, so he doesn’t have to sit at Sarah Dunleavy’s, where there are two open seats on purpose. Etta waves to me from the corner of the tent, where the kids eat sugared mints and tell silly jokes. I wave to her; she smiles.
As the clock hits midnight, Pearl and her new husband take to the dance