Rustic Hearts

Sophie

I step out onto the front porch with my quilt and sketchpad. It’s five a.m., and the house is still silent. I guess Sundays really are the day of rest around here.

I tossed and turned all night, trying to decide what I was going to do about staying here until Gram’s attorney returned. I could always go back to New York on Monday and fly back out here when he is ready, but that doesn’t feel right. Nothing has been resolved since I arrived. If nothing else, I’m even more conflicted than before.

Madeline and her family were easier to hate from afar. Spending last night watching a scary movie with her and Elle and my aunts, laughing and filling up on junk food, was actually nice.

Who am I, and what have I done with the angry, bitter, jealous girl who stepped off that airplane?

Then, there is Braxton. I’m still not sure how I feel about him. He is either ignoring me or looking at me like I’m an alien who sprouted another head.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I decided to roll the dice and stay through the end of the month. I do want to spend more time with Pop and Aunt Doreen and Aunt Ria. Maybe Daddy and I will finally have a real conversation too. Perhaps not, but at least I’ll know it’s not because I ran away.

As soon as it’s a decent hour, I’ll call Charlotte and run my plan by her. I feel guilty for heaping so much responsibility on her plate, but I’m sure she’ll agree that it would be better for my head to be in the game when I return home. At least, I hope she feels that way.

I settle in on the swing and start to sketch a dragonfly pendant when I hear a door open. I peer around the side of the house and see two people standing on a landing at the top of a staircase to the right, above the barn doors.

It’s Braxton and a brunette. Her back is to me, and she’s looking up at him. He’s in nothing but pajama pants, his feet are bare, and his hair is disheveled. The brunette reaches up and runs her fingers through it. It’s nice hair. I’ve never really noticed before because he’s always wearing that raggedy ball cap. He lays his hands on either side of her hips as she comes up onto her tiptoes and plants a kiss on his lips. He returns the kiss, and then he whispers something that makes her laugh before he releases her. She turns and trots down the steps. She gets into a red Mercedes convertible and drives away. Braxton stays on the landing and watches until her car is out of sight down the drive. Then, he turns and disappears back inside his door.

I stand up and walk to the side of the porch, so I can get a better view, and through the windows, I watch him move around. He walks out of sight and then comes back with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a towel around his neck. He opens the door again, and I dodge behind a column and hold my breath, hoping he didn’t see me.

A moment later, a small brown-and-white bulldog puppy rounds the side of the porch and gives a sharp bark, startling me.

“Shh,” I say as I look down at the pup. “Please don’t give me away,” I plead in a whisper as it continues to yap its greeting.

I move closer to the beam and pray that Braxton doesn’t hear it.

The excited puppy pees all over the porch as he jumps up at me, no doubt wanting to be picked up and petted.

It’s the cutest thing.

After a few terrifying moments, I hear Braxton’s deep voice from across the way. “Hawkeye, you done, boy?” His question is followed up by a loud whistle.

The puppy scampers off the porch and toward the barn.

I continue to hold my breath until I hear the door close once more, and then I let it out and bow over.

Jeez, why am I sneaking around, spying on him?

I return to the swing and finish my sketch before going in to shower and get ready for church.

Breakfast is potluck, prepared by the ladies at church and served before Sunday school. Aunt Doreen and Aunt Ria’s contribution is a delicious blueberry, cream-cheese-stuffed French toast casserole.

The entire town has come out for Gram’s service. Every pew is filled when Reverend Burr begins his sermon. He starts with a joke, saying that only Mrs. Betty Sue Lancaster could turn a Sunday service into a standing-room-only event.

After church, the family is given some private time with Gram. Pop stands by her casket and holds his hand on top of hers in silence for several long moments before Aunt Ria walks up and lays a white rose in with her. Then, one by one, everyone comes up and pays their final respects and hugs Pop. After everyone takes a turn, I approach slowly.

She looks like an angel. Her silver hair is arranged in a knot on top of her head, just as I remember her always wearing it. Her face is serene, and she has a hint of a smile on her lips, like she is finally in on the secret. The secret she preached to us all—that heaven is better than we could ever think or imagine, and she is already enjoying herself.

When I make my way to her side, Pop wraps an arm around me.

His solemn gaze never leaves Gram’s face as he speaks to me, “She’d be so happy you are here, Sophia.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier,” I tell him as a sob of regret escapes me.

“It’s okay. Gram would be tickled, knowing that she had a part in bringing you back home.”

He squeezes me in tighter, and I realize that I’m supporting him now.

Daddy comes along my left side, and he places a hand on my shoulder. The three of us stand there in silence for a beat.

Then, Daddy leans down and kisses her cheek. He whispers, “I’ll see you when I get to where I’m going, Momma.”

“Are we ready to begin, Mr. Lancaster?” the funeral director asks Pop.

A few minutes later, we are ushered out into the sanctuary with the others.

After a beautiful service filled with uplifting music and the town reminiscing about how Gram helped and served her community, people filing up one by one to tell stories of how she touched them in some profound way, we make our way to the cemetery where one last hymnal is sung and one last prayer is prayed. Then, she is lowered to her final resting place, and everyone starts to disperse.

I stay seated in the front row, and people start to mingle and offer condolences to the family. Several ladies head home to grab their prepared food, so they can beat us back to the ranch and set things up for the wake. As is customary, we will receive friends and family and every type of casserole known to man for the rest of the afternoon.

“It’s what we do when people are hurting, and we have no idea what to say. We cook, and we feed them. It’s how we take care of each other and show our love in times of loss,” Dallas explains as my eyes grow bigger with each foil-wrapped porcelain dish that walks in the door.

I watch as Aunt Doreen tries to stuff another pie into the refrigerator.

“There’s a lot of love in there,” I muse.

“Yep, that was Gram,” she agrees.

I feel little arms wrap around my legs and look down to see Beau staring up at me.

“You wa

“No, Beau, Miss Sophie has to stay inside with her guests,” Dallas tells him as she tries to untangle us.

“But everybody is loud in here,” he protests.